


Drowning at Night

by TriDom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alive Claudia Stilinski, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Healing, M/M, Marine Chris, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Professor Stiles, Shaman Peter, graphic descriptions of violence and torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5618719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/pseuds/TriDom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been five years since Stiles heard Chris’s voice, two days before he was taken prisoner while serving in Afghanistan.</p><p>Stiles has moved on. It's been hell to rebuild his life after he had everything he'd ever wanted, but he managed and he's fairly happy. His fiance, Peter Hale, is smart and gorgeous. He has the job he's wanted for five years. They have a good life. </p><p>But still in the quiet moments, when he sleeps, he's haunted with the lingering bitter sweet dreams of Chris's face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles has lived in Oklahoma his entire life. Chris is from the Ozarks in Missouri, so they're personalities will be a little different from canon.

Catfish sound like they’re choking when they’re pulled out of water. A clicking begins in their throat and builds in their chests while their lungs struggle to expand.

When Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night, sitting upright and sweating, he can still see Chris in the blue-green light of the Coleman lantern bringing a hammer down on a flathead’s skull. The insides of other fish smeared black on his fingers.

He can still hear their dry gurgling as they flopped in plastic buckets at their feet and drowned on late August air.

***

The bedroom is quiet when Peter’s gone. It isn’t that Peter’s a loud sleeper, he doesn’t snore, and he doesn’t move, but he’s there. That seems to be enough to keep the nightmares at bay most of the time. Stiles still has them, but when Peter isn’t there, he stares at the ceiling he can’t see through the dark.

When Peter’s home, he talks to him instead.

If not, he thinks about Chris’s face, blue and gaunt, and the hammer gripped tight in the dreams he doesn’t want. There’s still a stump there, under the Deep Fork River Bridge where catfish skin lingers. That doesn’t make it bad.

It’s that sometimes Chris’s face is the consistency of cottage cheese like he was showered with mustard gas or his fingernails are pulled, exposing the soft under-nail like hamburger meat. Other times, his eyes are milky white and sightless when he looks up and smiles, his broken teeth making his lips bleed.

It always ends with Chris reaching towards him with broken fingers. He wakes up sucking in air like he’s breaching water.

When Peter’s there, his hand is already rubbing his chest while he says tired soothing things.

When he isn’t, Stiles listens to himself heave, like his lungs can’t take in air.   

***

The second morning Peter was gone, Stiles stood in the kitchen listening to his coffee maker popping. It stood out stained and off-white on the granite counters. He took down one of the mugs from his old place. The small house with three bedrooms and the back porch with a leaking roof.

When the phone rang, he spooned sugar into the worn Marines mug and felt his stomach turn.

“Hey.”

“Good morning,” Peter said.

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to call before you went to work. How did you sleep?”

“I sleep for shit when you aren’t here.”

“You poor thing.”

Stiles grunted and took a sip of the still scalding coffee. “What are you guys doing today?”

Stiles listened to Peter talk about the plans he had with his family half the country away. There was something about a charity and a dinner. As much as he missed him, he was glad he could blame work for the first time in his and Peter’s relationship to get out of visiting his nearly in-laws.

When they hung up, Stiles walked outside. His feet crunched on the frozen dew and his breath made fog in the still dim morning as he went to his Silverado. Its dark paint was like a mirror despite being nearly six years old. He pulled open the door and pulled himself into the driver seat, inhaling the deep leather smell of the seats and the same brand of interior cleaner that had been used on it since it was first bought.

He taught at the nearest town. It had a college founded when the state was still Indian Territory and the main building had once been an all-girls Cherokee institution. Now it was funded by state grants and mostly white tuition, taught by white instructors, and a canon white curriculum. He tried to not be wrapped in the politics of it and the loss of legacy as he taught an eight am Composition I class, followed by a nine am Comp II course, an American Lit class at eleven then lunch.

His office was a closet that he shared with another instructor. Floating metal shelves were stacked with books above his desk. There was a picture of him and Peter at his dad’s last summer pushed toward the back corner. A second was mostly hidden by the computer monitor, covered in fingerprints and dust. When he worked late at night, he laid it face down so he didn’t have to see Chris smiling when it felt like a ghost stood at his shoulder.

When his phone rang, he grabbed it from the desk and stared out of the window overlooking the pavilion.

“Stiles Stilinski,” he said, his pen falling from his mouth and hitting the carpet. . “Goddamn it,” he said under his breath bending down to get it and nearly dropping his phone. “Hello?”

It sounded like the line was open, but no one spoke.

“Hello?”

“Stiles.”

He froze half bent beneath his desk.

“Who is this?”

They cleared their throat. He felt the color washing out of his face.

“Chris.”

He closed his eyes and felt sweat break over his forehead.  

“If this is a-,” he said, but he inhaled and then he couldn’t. Heat flashed through his ducts instantly. “Chris?”

“God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

Stiles put his hand over his mouth as heat pooled in his eyes and he tried to breathe. Disbelief tried to drown out what he was hearing, but it was Chris. He could hear it, perfectly, like he had last talked to him yesterday instead of five years before.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t cry,” Chris said.

But Stiles heard moisture in his breathing and he couldn’t help the tears that slid down his cheeks.

“Where are you? When did you-. Oh my god,” he said again, doubling over with his arm against his stomach.

“I’m in Washington,” Chris said, his voice too low and strained. “I’ve been in Germany for a month at a hospital. They said it’s been four weeks since the rescue. I don’t remember it,” he said, rushed and low, like he had been rehearsing. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. They couldn’t find your number.”

Stiles tried to listen to him as his air turned jagged. “Don’t apologize,” he said shaking his head with his eyes squeezed closed as the sound of Chris’s voice wreaked havoc in his skull. “I’m going to fly out, okay? Where are you?”

“Don’t bother. I’m flying in to Tulsa tomorrow,” Chris said.

“When?”

It didn’t feel like he was speaking. The words were coming out of his mouth, but it didn’t feel like he was thinking them or forming them with his tongue. He soaked in the sound of Chris’s voice. If it was a dream, he would take it for all it was worth.

“Are you okay?” he asked when Chris had given him the times and the terminal.

“I’m okay,” Chris said, then paused and Stiles’s felt his stomach drawing tight. He cleared his throat and Stiles realized he was holding his breath. “My eyes, I can’t see well.”

Stiles opened his own and stared at the matted gray carpet. “How bad?”

“I can see shadows,” Chris said.

“Chris,” he said weakly.

“It’s fine,” Chris said.

Stiles bit his tongue to keep from sobbing. That tone hit him like a truck. He hadn’t heard it so long, but the memories of it flooded back, when he fucked a paper in his undergrad courses and stressed about it, the time he backed into the mailbox, when his dad had a small heart attack, that was the voice Chris used. It made everything feel like it would be fine, like he would be okay.

“They need me to get off the phone,” Chris said after moment of both of them sitting, listening to the other trying to get themselves under control.

“I don’t want to hang up,” he said.

“I know,” Chris said.

Stiles tasted blood as he tried to hold back the panic attack digging into his lungs.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Chris said.

“Chris. Don’t, don’t hang up,” Stiles said.

Then he had movement and Chris talking to someone else, a woman’s voice.

“I have to go. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Stiles said.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Chris said again.

“Okay,” Stiles said, clearing his throat and trying to pull himself together as he heard the phone moving. He heard Chris talking to the woman again, then there was a click and the line was silent.

The picture behind Stiles’s monitor stared back at him before his eyes shimmered and everything dissolved into water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Claudia are divorced in this story, but still on good terms.

Stiles stood on the front step at his dad’s house, staring down the driveway. Leaves skittered over the ground. They gathered along the ditches and his nose was starting to go numb in the cold before he pressed the doorbell. He heard it echo through the house, the echo of his dad's dog barking, then the grumble of John's voice before the door came open and the screen rattled as it suctioned inward.

“Why are you knocking?” John asked. Then he looked back over his shoulder at the clock hanging on the wall in the kitchen. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“They found Chris.”

His voice was barely loud enough to hear. His dad’s face creased, like he didn’t understand, then it was washed with sadness. Stiles eyes prickled and burned against the cold.

“Are they sure?”

“I talked to him,” Stiles said, then his dad’s face changed again and he realized he had thought he meant they had found Chris’s body. He gapped like a fish.

“Are his clothes still upstairs?”

“Come in,” John said, pulling him inside, like he’d forgotten he was standing in the cold. “Letting all the hot air out. Jesus,” he said, walking away toward the kitchen as Stiles closed the door.

Stiles followed after him and came into the kitchen as John was taking down mugs.

“How is he?” John asked, then he dropped what was in his hands and turned back around. He mumbled something before he held out his arms. Stiles hugged him tightly. His eyes started to burn again. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said.

“That was a stupid thing to ask,” John said. “I can’t imagine what’s going through your head.”

Stiles dug his fingers into his dad’s shirt. “He’s blind. They did something to his eyes and he can’t see.”

“Fucking Christ.”

“He’s flying into Tulsa tomorrow, so I don’t know,” Stiles clutched his dad closer and John squeezed him.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Me either,” Stiles said.

He couldn’t. The drive over felt like a dream, talking to Chris felt like it even more. Even hugging his dad felt like someone else was doing it, like he was floating along with only a small thread keeping him tied to the ground.

“I’m going to call your mom, alright?”

“Okay,” Stiles said, wiping his face and going towards the stairs. “I’m going to go see what all’s up there.”

“I’ll be up in a second,” John said.

Stiles nodded, but he was already on the stairs towards the second floor. He walked down the narrow hallway, passed his old bedroom, and stopped at the thinner door between his and he’s dad’s. He looked down the hallway to either side, the old family pictures, the same muted stale smell that had been in the carpets since his mom and dad separated and no one shampooed them anymore. It didn’t smell bad, but it didn’t smell good, not like his mom’s house.

Finally, he turned the gold knob and opened the door to narrow stairs that led to the attic. The smell of spider spray started halfway up and became intense. He’d have to wash all of Chris’s clothes, everything was going to smell like this, spider spray and mothballs with faint hints of dead mouse.

Stiles flipped on the light switch and the one bulb in the center of the pitched roof room started to flicker before it started to hum. There was a window facing the street, but it was so dusty hardly any of the gray light outside came in.

His old football gear was piled in a corner with his baseball bat he used in middle school. His mom’s sewing machine was in the corner, covered in dust and cobwebs. There were boxes stacked against the back wall with sharpie written on the sides in his mom’s handwriting. _Christmas decorations, granny's china, Mama’s Stilinski’s cooking ware._

Stiles started shifting boxes against the rear wall. He hadn’t put the boxes up here, his mom and dad did. Chris’s guns were in the corner. Stiles slid his fingers down the cold barrel of Chris’s 30-06. It was older than Chris. It had been his grandpa’s. When Chris shot it for the first time he was nine and it put a huge bruise on his shoulder. His AR-15 was in the back.He picked it up, tilting the guns back against each other so they wouldn’t fall before he raised it against his shoulder. The stock was slid out too far, for Chris’s longer arms. His fingers left prints in the dust on the dull gray of the barrel.

He heard his dad on the stairs, the creak of the floor boards as he reached the top.

“I need to clean these. I can’t believe I let them get so nasty,” Stiles said, putting the rifle down gently on one of his mom’s boxes.

“They’ll clean up,” John said.

“I don’t know why I didn’t take them to the house. I just let them sit up here like this.”

“They’ve been fine. It’s a good place for them.”

Stiles walked away from the pile and went to his dad shifting boxes in another corner.

“Do you only want his clothes?”

"Yeah. We’ll get the other stuff later.”

John grabbed a big box from the top and set it on the ground before he grabbed another. Stiles took his knife from his pocket and flipped it open before he dragged it down the crackled layer of boxing tape. The shirt on top was the last one Stiles’s put away, the only one he folded himself. His mom had done the rest. He took out the black t-shirt with a hunting company’s logo on the pocket.

Stiles’s throat shuddered as he felt the softness of it. It still felt the same as when he would pull it out of the dryer, when it was on the floor and he would pick it up and put it in the hamper by the foot of their bed, like when he hugged Chris and felt the thick cotton heated by his skin.

The truck he had gotten used to; even the pictures, the ones in the office, the one in his wallet, and those at home. They were every day occurrences, they kept Chris in his mind, but this was Chris, the tangible proof that he had been alive, the fact the he was pulling them out of storage, meaning that he was coming home. That he was going to be there the next day and that he wasn’t dead.

That he had been captive for five years.

The pain in Stiles’s chest crashed down, like it took the bottom out of his sternum and ripped all the way through his insides.

Stiles felt his face draw tight as he held the shirt up.

He tried to make the tears stop, but they wouldn’t. They crashed over him again. Then his dad sat beside him and put his arm around his shoulders. Stiles leaned into his side and held the shirt against his face.

It smelled like dust and mothballs. It smelled like it had been forgotten and it had been. It had been forgotten like the guns in the corner that Chris loved so much, like Chris’s books Stiles could see labeled in a box in front of him, that he should’ve had put up in a place that he could touch them and love them. Where they wouldn’t have been forgotten about, just because it was easier.

“It’s okay. Breathe, buddy,” His dad said soothingly as Stiles felt a panic attack grip him like one hadn’t in two years. His breathing felt mangled. He remembered Scott laying on the playground when they were seven and struggling to breathe on the cedar chips. He didn’t know if that could have felt any worse as the waves of panic slammed him again and again.

 

 

 

They were downstairs when his mom came in. A blast of cold wind came with her before she closed the front door. Stiles barely had time to straighten after digging through one of the boxes, when she hugged him. He hugged her back, her scarf cold and soft against his raw face.

“I had to cancel my classes and there was a fucking parade,” she said, squeezing him. “It didn’t feel like I was ever going to get here.”

She was a half foot shorter than him, and over fifty pounds lighter, but everything felt better then. Everything felt like it was going to be okay, even when nothing had changed at all. Then she pulled away and put her cold hands on his cheeks.

“Are you okay? What can I do?”

“Nothing, really. We’re just going through his stuff.”

Claudia looked at the boxes by their feet then stepped around Stiles and kneeled down. She smelled one of Chris’s shirts and shook her head.

“I’ll get all of them washed. John, do you have enough detergent?”

“I think so,” his dad said.

“Do you have softener?”

John made a face before he went to the laundry room. Stiles heard him shuffling around before he came back holding a bottle of Gain towards her.

“How full is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Half?” John said, shaking it.

“That’s fine,” she said, then she hefted one of the boxes up and walked into the laundry room. “Do you know how to fold clothes and choose not to or what?” she called out.

John rolled his eyes and looked at Stiles.

“You called her,” Stiles said, clearing his rough throat.

“Because she should work for the fucking Red Cross,” John mumbled as he walked towards the laundry room.  

Stiles leaned against the back of the couch and looked down the short hall to the light of the laundry room. He could see his parents moving and hear their voices, but he couldn’t understand them as he stared. Vaguely he watched his dad take a load of his clothes out of the dryer and his mom taking them back from him before he heard the winding of the dryer knob again.

“I’ll just fold them.”

“You don’t have to fold them,” John said.

“Let me keep my hands busy,” she said.

Then his dad’s voice went low. Stiles focused enough to watch him put his arms around her, talking with their faces only a few inches away. Her arms looped around his shoulders before she laid her cheek against his chest.

Stiles looked away from what had confused him so much when they first separated. How they could still be close, talk on the phone every day, how they could still hug and touch like they always had.

Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. Stiles pulled it out and stared down at a text from Peter. He asked how Stiles’s day was.

Stiles suddenly wanted to call him. He wanted to tell him everything and have Peter say it was alright. He wanted Peter there.

He clicked the screen off and put it back into his pocket as his mom came back down the hallway, taking off her scarf and coat.

“Did you get to talk to him long?” she asked.

“Five minutes, maybe,” he said.

“Where is he?”

“Washington. I didn’t really get to talk to him. They took the phone.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why didn’t they let you talk to him?”

Stiles shrugged. Claudia shook her head before she kneeled down beside the two remaining boxes and started to take clothes out. Stiles sat on the floor with her, taking some things from her just to hold them in his hands, like Chris’s Marines t-shirt, then his dark canvas Carhartt at the bottom.

“We don’t have time to dry clean it,” Claudia said, then pushed to her feet and went into the kitchen where his dad had been banging around for awhile. “I’ll see if he has Febreeze.”

Stiles laid the jacket on his lap and slid his hands into the pockets. A gum wrapper was in one. Stiles smelled the thin foil. There was still evergreen powder on it. A receipt from the store for dish detergent and chicken was in the other.

Digger, Stiles’s childhood dog came from under the stairs and walked slowly towards him through the minefield of boxes with her cataract covered eyes. Stiles slid his hand over her fluffy ears as she came closer and sniffed before dropping down on a pile of Chris’s clothes to lay her head on his lap. Her nose wiggled towards Chris’s coat and her stub of a tail wiggled slightly before her eyes closed.

“Look who came out of hiding, pretty girl,” Claudia said as she came back into the room. She sat beside Stiles and petted the old dog that John got when Stiles was seventeen. Then John stood in the archway from the kitchen in front of them, leaning on the wood.

“We’ll follow you up tomorrow, if you want,” John said.

“He was your friend. If you want to see him come with me,” Stiles said.

“But if you wanted to be alone the first time, that’s alright, we can see him after you have.”

Stiles shook his head, his eyes already watering again. “We’re not going to be alone. It’s an airport.”

John looked at Claudia and Claudia rubbed Stiles’s back where her arm was around his shoulders. He didn’t even remember her doing it. He was still holding Chris’s jacket on his lap with the dog’s head on his thigh. He didn’t know what time it was.

“Where are you going to take him?” John asked.

“I don’t know. Peter’s gone. I was just going to take him home.”

John looked at Claudia again. Claudia stared at him and shook her head, running her fingers through Stiles’s hair.

“Have you talked to Peter about that?”

“John,” Claudia said.

“It would be stupid not to ask,” John said.

“He doesn’t need to worry about that right now.”

“He kind of does,” John said. “I’m sorry, but you just can’t take a man into another man’s house. That’s not right.”

Stiles looked up and shrugged. He didn’t have the energy. So much was under the surface it felt like bugs were on his insides, but nothing was surfacing. He probably shouldn’t take Chris to the house, but that’s where he wanted him to be. He wanted him to be able to lay in a bed, to cook for him, to just be able to hold him, to see his face. He didn’t care where he did it, he just needed to be able to.  

“I don’t know,” Stiles said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I want to be alone with him. Peter’s not going to like it, but I’m sure we’re done anyway.”

“But you haven’t talked to him.”  

“John,” Claudia cut him off again. When he started to talk again, she shook her head. “You need to stop.”

“I’m just trying-.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, but there isn’t any quick fix to this,” she said. “He knows that.”

“They could at least stay here. I could stay with you,” John said.

Stiles shook his head, running his fingers through the soft fluff of Digger’s ears. “I’m taking him home,” he said, then looked up to his dad’s turned down face. “I know it’s probably not smart, but I’ll figure something out by the time Peter’s comes back. This is already going to fuck him up. There isn’t any getting out of that,” Stiles said then shrugged again weakly as his eyes burned for another reason. “It sucks, but I can’t really do anything else.”

“You have enough to worry about, take it a step at a time,” Claudia said, rubbing his arm. “Otherwise you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

Stiles nodded and just leaned forward into his knees, into the coarse fabric of Chris’s jacket and willed time to move faster and slower at the same time.


	3. Chapter 3

Less than twenty-four hours after they spoke, Chris sat in a terminal at Tulsa International.

A man was sitting beside him on a plastic bench. To his right, people moved as dark shapes against a window. He watched their heights changing in his peripheral vision.

“I think this is him, Sargent," the man said. "Do you want to stand up?" 

“Yes,” Chris said towards the pressure on his shoulder. There were only two of them. They didn’t need to touch him. He focus on that instead of his hands sweating, the fabric of his pants dampening to his thighs.

Chris pushed up and felt the private’s body heat hovering beside him.

“Is he with anyone?” he asked.

“A man and a woman.”

A handful of people walked towards him. He couldn’t see their faces. He could only see where their bodies blocked the light. He couldn't focus, not on one movement or sound, but all of them, footsteps, the intercom as it buzzed, his own breathing, slowly in, and slower out. Everything was so loud. So commercial. 

One person came closer than the rest with the light to their back.

“Holy shit,” Stiles said.

Chris felt his face draw tight and the heat of tears flush behind his ducts and down his neck. He reached out then Stiles thumped against him. His arms wrapped around his shoulders, his wet face against his neck. Chris buried his fingers in his hair, his knee faltering as he held him tighter to keep from falling. 

“Don’t cry. It’s alright,” he said, even as his entire body shook with tears.

“I thought you were dead,” Stiles choked as he dragged himself closer.

It hurt his upper arm, but Chris just squeezed him. 

Then Stiles barely pulled away, his cool hands were on his cheeks. He dragged his palms over his face and Chris felt it drag against his stubble as he closed his eyes and dropped his forehead against Stiles’s.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Stiles said around a jagged breath.  

Chris brushed his thumb over Stiles’s face until he felt the soft warmth of his lips. Stiles was still for a second then he pressed back and parted his lips. He tasted the same. Chris shook, his fingers pressing into the sides of Stiles’s face as he kissed him deeper. Stiles held Chris’s hand to his cheek, curling their fingers together as the kiss dragged out.

Finally, Chris pulled away, not letting Stiles’s go and Stiles’s didn’t try. He just breathed in the same air as he touched his face.

His thumbs were warm when he touched under Chris’s eyes, spreading his tears back towards his temples.

“Can you see me at all?” Stiles asked.

The wall of windows poured light on the planes of Stiles’s face. He followed the curve of his nose.

“Not really, but it’s enough,” Chris said, then he felt his eyes burning as he hugged him again. “You’re seem taller.”

Stiles squeezed him then fisted his hands in his jacket and pulled him tighter. “It feels like I’m going to wake up. That’s stupid. It has to be a thousand times worse for you.”

Chris shook his head and listened to the soothing noise of his rambling.

“Your hair’s so gray,” Stiles said quietly.

Chris pressed his face into the heat of Stiles’s neck. Stiles’s hands rubbed over his jacket, then they slipped under his clothes and against the skin of his sides and back. The colder air of the terminal brushed where Stiles’s hands shoved under his shirt and made it ride up.

“Who’s with you?” Chris asked quietly.

“Mom and Dad,” Stiles said. He kissed his cheek then pulled away, keeping his hand on his arm.

A man had moved closer. They took a few more steps then they touched his shoulder.

“Chris.”

Chris touched John’s arm, then pulled him closer, wincing at bolts of pain flaring up his femur.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Chris said.

“Yours too,” John said, squeezing him for a long moment before he released.

Then Claudia came forward. He couldn’t see her face, but he thought he could see that her hair was longer, but it was hard to tell. Her thin cool hand touched his arm before she hugged him.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

Chris just nodded, uncomfortable they were seeing him with tears on his face. He could feel his nose running. He clenched his hand on Stiles’s arm and drew him closer again. Stiles curled into his side. Chris listened to him inhale against his neck and felt him breathe out before he kissed him softly.   

“Do you have bags?” John asked.

Chris nodded, then made a useless gesture toward his bags, wanting to pick them up, but having no idea which shape on the ground they were. Then one of the marines pushed the canvas strap of his duffle into his hand. John took it before the weight could pull on his shoulder, then Stiles was drawing his arm around his body tighter.  

“Let’s get out of here,” Stiles said against his cheek before he kissed him again. Chris had no pride. He pressed his face against Stiles’s neck for a long moment and his reason for living ran his fingernails over his scalp softly, not pushing him to move, just letting him lean on him for a too short perfect moment.

***

Stiles looked over at Chris as he drove through the quiet traffic on the edges of the city. He was thin, his cheeks sunk in and beneath his eyes. His knuckles were white, his fingers digging into the meat of his thigh.

“Are you okay?”

Chris looked towards him and Stiles made himself look back at his gray pupil-less eyes. They twitched, but they didn’t focus. His insides cramped. Chris’s eyes were perfect before, such a crystal clear blue. Now they looked like foggy milk.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you want to jump out.”

“I took a few valium. They’ll kick in soon,” Chris said.

“Do I need to pull over?”

Chris shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back against the headrest. The tire noise was a dull roar. Stiles reached over and took his hand on the center console, rubbing roughly before he lifted it and kissed his knuckles. There were scars all over them. Chris squeezed then he shifted in the seat and winced before he pushed his forehead against Stiles’s fingers.

 “I can’t believe you kept the truck. It smells the same.”

“You loved it,” Stiles said.

Chris rocked his forehead against his fingers before he leaned back.

“You don’t still have the house, do you?”

Stiles shook his head, but his lip trembled and he was glad Chris couldn’t see it as the road went watery before he blinked again.

“They didn’t give me your benefits. I couldn’t afford it.”

Chris leaned on the door and held Stiles’s hand more tightly.

“But we’re going to my house.”

“Are John and Claudia going to be there?”

“No.”

Chris nodded and squeezed his hand again like a pulse. “I just want to be alone with you." 

“Same,” Stiles said and kissed his fingers for the fifteenth time, because he couldn’t not. “My house is on the Illinois. There's some acreage we won't be by anyone." 

“Good." 

Stiles ran his finger back and forth over Chris’s hand as the radio played quietly. When they were on the empty roads, he looked over at Chris and watched him like he would disappear. Every time it made him want to cry. If he looked at him too long, his eyes watered, he let them as he looked back at the road and felt the warmth of Chris’s hand in his. He didn’t know what to talk about. There was so much there it was a wall. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to hold Chris with no space between them, he wanted to sink into him until there was no difference between them.

But there was a fucking console between them and empty miles that felt depthless before they could rest.

 

 

 

“If I open the curtains would it be better?” Stiles asked when they finally walked in the front door of the house.

Chris nodded. His fatigues were washed dull purple and blue in the low light. His face seemed gray. “It’s dark.”

Stiles went to the large windows on the far side of the living room. He pushed the curtains back, washing the room in western light, still above the tops of the foothills. Chris still stood in the doorway from the foyer. He turned his head and took a slow step forward before he reached out then took another step until his fingertips touched the arm of the couch. Stiles watched his rough fingers touch the microfiber and his eyes burned again.

 “Do you want me to lead you around?”

Chris nodded again. 

Stiles took his hand and wrapped it around his arm. Chris leaned in to him for a moment before he straightened, like his body hurt. Stiles kissed the back of his hand before he started walking down the hallway beside the stairs.

“Right here is a bathroom, just a toilet and sink,” he started.

He showed Chris around the lower floor then helped him up the stairs. Chris’s knuckles were white where he gripped the banister, and held on to Stiles with the other. When they reached the top, Stiles took him to the bedroom off the stairwell and sat him on the edge of the bed.

“I’m fine,” Chris said.

“But we’re not in a hurry,” Stiles said, kneeling in front of him.

He closed his eyes and felt Chris breathe out while he dragged his fingers over his cheeks.

“This doesn’t feel real.”

“I know,” Stiles said as he slid his arms around Chris’s hips and dropped his face against his thighs.

“Where do you teach?” Chris asked.

“Northeastern,” Stiles said, turning his cheek against the denim on Chris’s thigh, so he could hear him.

“Do you have tenure?”

“Not yet. I just started a year ago.”

Chris ran his fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t even know you wanted to teach.”

“I didn’t really know until I decided on a major. Then went to get my masters.”

“You have your masters?”

Stiles nodded against his leg.

“That’s great, Stiles,” Chris said.

Stiles closed his eyes and soaked in the quiet sincerity of his voice. He turned back in against him and tightened his arms. Chris leaned over until his lips were against the knot of his shoulders.

“I hate not knowing these things,” Chris said. Stiles could feel his warm breath through his shirt as he spoke. “I hate having to ask you about things I should know.”

“Ask whatever you want.”

Chris stayed draped over him and Stiles soaked in the feeling of his body pressing down, the smell of him claustrophobic and consuming.

“I thought about you every day,” Chris said.

Stiles’s eyes had started to water again at some point. It felt like they were constantly running. He nodded against him.

“Me too,” Stiles said wetly. “Can we finish looking around later?”

“Whatever you want,” Chris said, rubbing circles on his back, pulling up his shirt with every rotation until his rough hands touched his skin. He pressed closer to Chris, and Chris slid his hand beneath his shirt.

“Can we take a nap?” he asked.

“Yeah. That sounds good,” Chris said.

Stiles pulled back enough to pull Chris’s feet onto his lap so he could undo the laces of his boots. His fumbled then fell into muscle memory. He could nearly smell their old house and the sharp mint of the lotion he used sometimes when Chris did drills and his feet were sore.  

He looked up when Chris touched his cheek. His eyes were on him, but not focusing. Stiles squeezed the boot laces as tears gathered in them like gray water before they broke and over spilled like the river in winter.

“It kills me not to be able to see you.”

Stiles’s chest clenched as he watched the water gather from Chris’s ducts in fat drops. It didn’t feel like he could breathe.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said as tears slid down his own face. “I’m boring. I look the same I always did.”

Chris pulled back and rubbed his hands into his eyes. “God, I’m sorry. It hasn’t stopped.”

“Like you have to say sorry,” Stiles said.

“It’s over,” Chris said. 

“It hasn’t even been a day." 

He stood up then and started to undo the buttons of Chris’s over-shirt. He winced when Stiles helped him slide it down his arms. When he started to pull up his t-shirt, Chris caught his hand.

“Leave it on.”

Stiles swallowed and nodded before remembering he couldn’t see that and slid his hands down his chest to his stomach.  

“Can I take off your pants?”

“Just leave them on.” Chris said, as he felt behind him, pressing on the bed before he scooted back. Stiles shrugged off his flannel then started to take off his t-shirt before stopping.

“Do you care if I take off my jeans?”

“Take off as much as you want." 

Stiles toed off his shoes and pushed off his jeans before he crawled into the bed beside Chris. Stiles tucked his hand beneath his cheek and stared while Chris’s eyes were closed.

“Don’t be a creep,” Chris said.

Stiles laughed slightly and scooted closer until his knees were touching Chris’s thigh. Chris moved his leg over one of his and Stiles sandwiched it between his own.

“It’s weird how much you look the same,” Stiles said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You do.”

Chris grunted.

Stiles shifted his legs then winced.

“Your pants suck.”

Chris opened his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned down. He did have more wrinkles. They were deeper.

“Take them off.”

“I don’t have to-.”

“It’s okay. Just don’t be surprised,” Chris said, undoing the button on his pants and rolling onto his back.

Stiles moved onto his knees and started to pull Chris’s pants down when he lifted up. It surprised him when his mouth dried out and tingles went down his spine. He couldn’t help it when Chris’s knees were bent and spread. He cupped his thighs as he slid them down, kneading into them. Chris’s chest sank as he breathed out.

The tingles swam up again through his balls, wrapping into his lower stomach. He kissed Chris’s knees as he slid the pants farther down. He closed his eyes and kissed down his shins as he pulled his clothes off and rubbed down his long legs.

When his lips hit a hard dip in the bone, Stiles pulled back as the little tingles turned to a cold gelatinous pool in his gut.

There was a divot in Chris’s right shin.

The dark hair on his legs masked the smaller white scars until he found the first of them. Then he couldn’t overlook them.

His legs were covered, white, purple, and blue scars, shallow, knotted, thin, and sickeningly deep.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He winced at the sound of his voice.

“It’s that bad, then.”

“I wasn’t expecting so many.”

“I told you to leave them on,” Chris said gently, but he started to draw his leg away.

“Does it hurt to walk?”

“Sometimes.”

 

Stiles touched one of the deepest scars on the inside of Chris’s thigh halfway between his knee and groin. It dimpled into his flesh for half an inch before becoming shallower. He breathed in his nose and it hitched as his mind was flooded with how it could’ve been done, how much pain Chris must’ve been in, how scared he must have been to be alone.

“Easy,” Chris said, sitting up, and pulling him against his chest.

Stiles held him by his shoulders and started to cry as the thoughts stared to consume him. They had had him for so long. For long enough that he had prayed Chris would just be dead. Instead, he had been in pain, he had been scared, and abandoned.

Chris moved them until his back was against the headboard and Stiles was in his lap. He pulled the blankets up around them and kissed Stiles’s temple. His stubble scratched against his skin and Stiles shook. Peter never had stubble. The feeling was so incredibly Chris it made him shiver.

“It’s okay,” Chris whispered against his ear. “It’s over. I’m right here.”

Stiles listened to him mumbled it repeatedly as he rubbed his skin, his hand going beneath his shirt, beneath the blanket, Chris lifted his own shirt enough to touch. Stiles breathing shuddered again. The memory of it washed over him. The times Chris had done that in their bed, in their house, when Stiles was upset, when he was having an anxiety attack, when Chris didn’t want to release Stiles enough to take off their clothes completely.  

When his breathing evened, Stiles turned in against Chris and kissed him. Chris cupped his face and opened his mouth. His lips were soft, but the scruff made them rough. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed at the way they made his lips tingle then burn as they kissed. Chris went from holding, to pressing his fingers into his skin and pulling him closer.

Stiles slid his tongue into Chris’s mouth and moaned when Chris sucked. He had forgotten he did that. He thought he remembered how he tasted, but he was wrong. The memory was nothing to the reality. He shifted to straddle Chris and he almost whimpered when Chris groaned into his mouth. He could feel his dick against his through their underwear. He had dreams of kissing Chris, of feeling his body, and sucking him off, he had dreams of Chris making love to him and they made him wake up dripping pre-cum and crying.

The dreams didn’t remember how he felt or how he smelled.

“I missed you,” Chris said.

“Me too,” Stiles said, kissing him again. “I love you so much. I love you so much it hurts,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” Chris said. Stiles watched his face crease as he bit back tears. “I was scared shitless I was going to call and you were going to have moved on.”

Stiles shook his head, still crying, and crying easier because Chris’s eyes were closed and tears were sliding out beneath his lashes.

“I tried, but you’re always there,” Stiles said and felt half of his heart plummet at the truth of it. “I can’t replace you.”

“Good,” Chris said. “That’s so fucking selfish, but thank god.”

There was so much relief in his voice that Stiles had to kiss him again. His heart felt mangled. Peter’s face hung in his mind, but he tried to push it away.

He was holding his first love, his hero, the person he never thought he would touch again and he couldn’t turn on that. As he tasted Chris, half of his heart cracked as another part, a hibernating and nearly euthanized part, began to piece itself back together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a small change. Peter is not a werewolf (like I had in the tags). He's a shaman.

Stiles couldn’t sleep.

He laid beside Chris and felt the heat of his body, the twitch of his legs as he slept. He had passed out when they stopped kissing, his eyelids dragging as the valium took hold. Stiles didn’t know how long he laid there.

At one point, he heard his phone, the vibration muffled in his jeans pocket against the carpet. It could have been one of his parents, but he knew it was Peter, again. He swallowed the lump in his throat with his arm around Chris, feeling the air leaving his nose and tickling against his neck where he slept half on top of him.  

At some point, he wormed himself out from beneath Chris’s weight, missing it as soon as the cold air hit his legs as he went to the bathroom. He pissed in the attached room, then went to the cabinet, and grabbed a sponge before he kneeled beside the tub. It hadn’t been used in months, not since Peter’s nephew came to stay with them. He didn’t even know if Derek had used it. He’d probably just used the shower.

Kneeling down, he started to scrub at the film of dust on the plastic, around the jets, and up to the edges. Finally, he dropped the plug and let it fill before he hit the button on the side and let the jets spurt out their dirty crumbs. They floated on the bubbly surface before he lifted the plug and rinsed it down and started to fill it again.

“Stiles?” he heard muffled through the walls.

“I’m in here,” Stiles said, getting up and going to the door.

Chris was on his back, propped on his elbows. When the door moved, he looked towards it before he tension in his shoulders eased.

“What’s that noise?”

“What noise?” Stiles asked. Then he looked back, where the water was running. “It’s the bathtub. I thought you might want it.”

Chris started to push himself up. His lips turned down and his face creased before he rolled on his side and put his legs over the edge. Stiles took his hand and pulled him up and letting Chris use him for balance.

“I just don’t remember you being this tall,” Chris said, looking down at him. “I thought you were my boy.”

Stiles put his arm around Chris’s lower back before he laid his hand on his neck. He forgot the deep rough way Chris said it, that didn’t sound kinky. It was just a fact. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and he was his boy.

“Does a few extra inches change that?”

“Nothing changes that,” Chris said.

“That’s right,” Stiles said, sliding his hands over Chris’s cheeks then down until the edges of his thumbs touched his lips. “Come on before the tub overflows.”

Chris followed him, keeping a hand on his side. He was favoring one of his legs, his footsteps uneven on the thick carpet before they reached the tile, a steady thud, then a drag and thump.

“Arms up,” Stiles said.

Stiles watched his adam’s apple move before he took the hem of his shirt, pulling it up until Stiles helped him. He watched the fabric bunching as he pulled it over Chris’s head, keeping his eyes on it and not on the expanse of skin beneath. 

“It’s not good,” Chris said. “The burns were the IED. That’s the worst of it.”

Stiles nodded, then looked down and held his breath. Slick red skin covered his left shoulder, across his chest, radiating in all directions like pissed off veins.  

“Easy,” Chris said, holding his shoulders as Stiles’s knees turned weak.

His ribs stood out like stairs at the top until the lost shape under his stomach. Stiles bit into his palm and held back the noise that wanted to come out. It wouldn’t help Chris to hear him cry. It wasn’t going to make it better. He forced in a breath.

Finally, he kissed his name on Chris’s chest, where it was bubbled and too smooth.

“I’m alright,” Chris said, with his fingers threading through the back of his hair. “That’s what’s important. I'm home. I'm with you.”

“Yeah. I know,” Stiles said, hugging him again and breathing in the smell of his skin. Then he gave Chris a weak push. “Get in.”

He helped Chris, steadying his back and anchoring most of weight as Chris stripped out of his underwear and lowered himself into the water. He groaned as he settled, dipped his hands under the surface and splashed his face, dragging his hands down. Stiles sat against the side, dragging his fingers over Chris’s knee cap, feeling the wet dark hairs.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a bath.”

“Do you want the jets on?”

“Does it have them?” Chris asked, feeling along the sides until he felt the nozzles. “Why not?”

Stiles hit the button and Chris jumped as the water erupted out with a dull roar. Then he pushed back against the one by his spine.

“Our tub sure as fuck didn’t have that,” Chris said, cupping his hand over one of the jets by his hip.

“I loved ours,” Stiles said with his chin on his arm, watching the water roll up Chris’s palm and froth at the surface.

“You always complained in the winter. The porcelain stayed too cold.”

“But it was cool looking.”

“It was that,” Chris said, leaning his head back and reaching up to take his hand.

Stiles kissed his wet fingers again before he slid his free hand over Chris’s, following each white scar on his knuckles.

“It’s so quiet,” Chris said.

“I can turn on music or something.”

Chris shook his head. “No. It’s been a long time since I’ve just heard quietness,” Stiles watched his damp chest sink as he listened to him exhale. 

Stiles pressed his cheek to his hand, squeezing for a second until Chris squeezed back two short times. He sat like that for a while, letting Chris have the quiet, but not letting go. His eyes were closed. He looked so peaceful, until Stiles looked lower, at the angry red skin that covered his chest and ribs. The water broke it up, dulled it under the clear surface. Stiles looked lower, followed the dark hair spread all over Chris’s body. He’d forgotten how dark it was, how much more there was than Peter’s. Peter was pretty lean and the hair he did have was lighter, thinner on his belly.

“Do you want jeans or sleep pants?” Stiles asked.

“I’ll just wear what I had. I’ll figure something out with getting clothes tomorrow.”

“I have your clothes.”  

Chris opened his eyes without lifting his head. “You didn’t keep them.”  

“What else was I going to do with them?”

His eyes watered again and a sharp knot lodged in his throat. It hurt to think of Chris wondering if he would get rid of his things. Not until they gave him a body, and even then, no. They were Chris’s. They weren’t anyone else’s. 

“Of course you did,” Chris said, cupping his cheek in his damp palm. Stiles turned in and kissed him before he stood up.

“Sweats or jeans?”

Chris laughed slightly, his eyes closing again. “Sweats sound good.”

Stiles couldn’t help touching his hair again before he went into the bedroom. He put Chris’s clothes in the dresser the night before, at passed three am when he couldn’t sleep. He had sat on the floor and refolded every piece of clothing for something to do.

He pulled open the doors and took out one of Chris’s t-shirts, a pair of his underwear, and sleep pants before he went to his jeans on the floor and pulled the phone from them. Peter’s name was on the screen. Two calls. One from seven-thirty, when he should’ve been headed to work, and one thirty minutes before. He had a few texts from last night and one from today, asking if he was okay. He put it down and went back to the bathroom, sitting on the tile again.

“This is a nice house,” Chris said, looking toward him, but not at his eyes.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, feeling blood heat his cheeks.

It was nice. Nearly four-thousand square feet, four bedrooms, five bathrooms, a den, a living room, a beautiful kitchen and sun room. All bought with Peter’s money. And he went out of his way at every turn to make sure Stiles felt at home in it, made him have a say in buying it, dragged him into picking out flooring, paint, counters until it felt like Stiles’s home too. He pressed his face to his arms crossed over the edge of the tub as his eyes stung at the ducts again.

“Is your mom still teaching at Northeastern?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “She really likes it.”

“Good,” Chris said, squeezing his hand before he started to pull himself up.

Stiles stood and helped him, bracing him and having him step out on the rug so he didn’t fall. It was hard to ignore his body. Even with the burns, and the scars, he was still so stupidly handsome. He kissed his neck and tasted the water before licking up a small line to his jaw and sucking off the water droplets there. He felt Chris swallow against his tongue before he was pulled against his damp body.

“God, I missed you so much,” Stiles said, kissing down his neck then the dip in his collar bone before sucking softly.

“You too,” Chris said, angling up his chin so Stiles could kiss under his jaw. “What did you want to do tonight?”

“I don’t care. I just want to be close to you.”

“What are you comfortable with?” Chris asked.

“I want whatever you want,” Stiles said, kissing the bristle of his wet stubble, running his hands over the goose peddled skin on his arms. “I just want to be close to you,” he said again against his cheek.

Then Chris nosed his cheek until his lips found his, then he kissed him hard, feeling the lines of Chris’s body, the intent in the way he moved. He let Chris pushed him the general direction of the door before he took his hand and pulled him into the bedroom. He stripped out of his own shirt and pushed out of his underwear before he crawled backwards onto the bed, taking Chris’s hand and pulling him down with him.

His skin was clammy on Stiles’s, but he didn’t care, he pulled him down, wrapping his legs around Chris’s waist until there wasn’t room for daylight between them. Chris was breathing hard on his neck and face, his body tensing as he fucked down into the groove of Stiles’s hip.

“It feels so fucking good to touch you,” Chris said.

Stiles pulled back when he heard the sharp tone in his voice. His eyes were clenched shut and the hand that wasn't gripping his hip was twisted in the comforter. Stiles swallowed and slipped his hand between them. He had never felt Chris so wet. It slicked his palm as he slid his hand down Chris’s shaft.

“It’s okay, just relax,” Stiles said, kissing his cheek. “We can drag things out later.”

Chris shook his head. He lifted his hand and Stiles saw them tremble before he cupped his neck and jaw.

“I need to be in you, please,” he said.

Hearing him beg, cut. It went to the quick and stung.

“Okay,” Stiles said, kissing his soft mouth. “Let me up, I’ll be right back.”

Chris shook his head and burrowed against him, “No.”

“You’re not fucking me dry.”

Chris’s air puffed against his neck before he moved off Stiles’s rolling onto his back. Stiles got off the bed and went down the hall, to his and Peter’s bedroom. He didn’t look at anything. He didn’t linger. He tried not to breathe so he wouldn’t smell that distinct scent of him and Peter imbedded in the sheets. He yanked open the drawer from the bedside table, from the last night, when Stiles fingered Peter open, when Peter’s beautiful blue eyes had stared into his, casted slightly yellow in the lamp light. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed at the thought of the way Peter rolled down on his fingers, then his dick as they fucked slowly, then hard enough to make Peter dragged his dull nails down his back.

He slammed the nightstand drawer shut, lube in hand and bolted out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

It felt like he could breathe again when he walked back in the bedroom where Chris was. Stiles crawled back onto the bed, straddling his hips. Chris held his waist before he slid his palms up his ribs. Stiles dripped the slick liquid on his fingers before he reached behind himself and slid his fingers over his asshole.

“Too much,” Chris said, dragging his hand down Stiles’s belly where it clenched as he pushed in his first knuckle. “This is too much. It’s not real.”

“It feels like that,” Stiles said softly, then he dripped more lube all over his hand. He didn’t care if it hurt. Maybe if it hurt it would take away the surreal. The way the bathroom light painted Chris’s body like a morbid, beautiful watercolor. He stared at Stiles with his blank eyes that were so full and directionless. How much he wanted to see was crippling, Stiles could feel it on his skin, how badly Chris wanted to take him in.

 “Just lay back,” Stiles said, pushing Chris’s hands to the mattress.

Then he reached behind and slid his slick hand down Chris’s’ dick. Chris’s eyes dropped closed and his throat shuddered.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

Chris shook his head, sliding his fingers back up Stiles’s forearm. His touch was so light before he held Stiles’s elbow, rubbing circles around the hard knob.

Stiles pressed back, leaning up, and pressing back again until his muscle relaxed and the burn of Chris sliding into him started. It sounded like Chris has been punched. His hold on his elbow tightened. His eyes opened, wide, before he squeezed them closed again.

“Jesus, Stiles.”

Stiles’s eyes were starting to burn again. They were always burning. Chris’s fucking dick being in him shouldn’t make him want to collapse but it did. Instead, he held on to Chris’s shoulders and lifted up, to sink back down.

Chris grunted like it took the air from his lungs before he arched up then shuddered. Stiles pushed back faster, but not fast, before Chris panted like it hurt and his eyes clenched.

“Slow down,” Chris said, raggedly, “Just come here.”

Stiles leaned on him. He took his face in his hands, felt the short stiff hairs growing in. Chris put his arms around his back and pushed up. Then he buried his face against Stiles’s neck.

“I thought about this so many times,” Chris said, “Just hold still.”

Stiles felt him breathing. They laid so still, he could feel the thump of Chris’s pulse on his insides. He curled into him, tucking his arms against his chest and melted into the feeling of Chris wrapping his arms around him, kissing his cheeks, his chin, his nose, anywhere he fumbled.

They were crying. At some point it was both of them.

“Just fuck me, Chris, please,” Stiles whispered.

Chris slid his fingers into the back of his hair and started to fuck into him slowly. Stiles found his mouth and pushed back into him until they met with the dull smack of skin on skin.

Chris didn’t last three minutes and it kicked Stiles in the chest. It had been five days since he fucked someone, since he felt that release. While who the fuck knew how long it had been for Chris. While he was getting fucked and being fucked, Chris was suffering, touched starved, to the point that he came like a teenager being touched for the first time. The way his arms locked around Stiles’s shoulders. He moaned and it was choked against Stiles’s skin as his hips jerked. Stiles held him back, feeling Chris’s body shudder and noises that sounded close to tears.

He kissed Chris’s temple and over his cheeks as his breathing turned from quiet groans to ragged panting. His face was so wet. Stiles felt his body shudder before Chris squeezed him closer. Stiles couldn’t do anything but hold him back as Chris touched him like he couldn’t believe he was real, his fingers running over his back and over his sides like he was something revered. When Chris’s dick slid from him, he didn’t move. His dick laid soft against Chris’s belly and he just curled down against him, covering him like a blanket as night fell outside the windows.

***

It was passed midnight when Stiles walked into Peter’s office and closed the door behind him. He has listened to his phone ring two more times while he laid in bed with Chris. The paneling made it look darker. The big desk and the stacked bookshelves looked pretentious. All of it did. Like the painting hanging across from the desk didn’t drop down to uncover a seventy five inch TV, like he didn’t sit on that leather couch and watch stupid fucking cartoons with Stiles and giggle like a kid.

Against his ear, the phone rang as he looked at the thick carpet. They picked it out. They looked through sample books and touched the different fabrics. They broke it in with Peter on his hands and knees by the couch and Stiles fucking into him from behind.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and felt the sharp tingles into his sinuses.

“Hello, dear,” Peter said. “You’re up late.” 

The tears started immediately. Stiles swallowed and stared at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he blinked and the ceiling went from watery to clear. Speaking quietly, even though Chris had been asleep for hours.

“I’m glad you finally decided to call.” 

“Yeah,” he said. The tears broke over his eyes. If he ever cried again it would be too soon.

“I called John this evening. I was afraid something had happened to you.”

“Did he say anything?” Stiles asked, his blood suddenly cold. There was a trashcan beside the desk and he wanted to vomit in it.

“That you were fine. That you would call me soon,” Peter said.

Stiles slid his hand into his hair and squeezed at the roots as the small sobs started and he tried to keep the speaker from his mouth.

Peter hummed on the other end of the line. “Then something is wrong. I hate to sound narcissistic, but I can’t help but think it has something to do with me.”

Stiles hated that tone of voice. Cold and professional. He only used it with Stiles when things hurt. The few times they broke up, and the last time when Stiles watched himself break Peter’s heart before that voice came out of his mouth. He sank to the couch against the window and leaned forward as the tears ran down his face. 

“What’s wrong, Stiles?” Peter asked.

Stiles’s breathing hitched. He couldn’t even keep the hard voice. It gave and despite Peter trying not to let it show, he cared. He was upset and Stiles hated himself.

“Chris,” he forced out.

“Oh,” Peter said, audibly relaxing. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. Did you have a nightmare?”

“No, Peter. He’s here. They did a raid and it doesn’t-. It doesn’t matter, he’s here.”

The line was silent apart from his own breathing coming back from the speaker as he tried to calm down.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles said.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Peter asked. “I don’t know what to say. Have you slept with him?” The words caught in Stiles’s mouth, but Peter spoke before he even had a chance. “Of course you have. You don’t have to answer that.”

“I’m sorry. Stiles said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Peter said. 

“This is so fucked up.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“Stop being nice,” Stiles said. “Holy fuck, stop being nice.”

“I’m sorry if I can’t bring up the right amount of outrage.”

Stiles’s breathing rattled against his hand as his chest shook.

 “I can’t make him leave,” he said, crying harder. “I’ll move in with Dad or something-.”

“Stop, Stiles. Give me a moment.”

Stiles sat and listened to himself crying and trying to choke it down. It sounded so loud. It sounded like the house was echoing with it. At the same time, he felt every mile between them. He was alone and he wanted to crawl into Peter’s arms. His stomach churned when he realized that would never happen again.

“How injured is he?” Peter asked.

“He’s blind. He can hardly walk, he’s-,” Stiles covered his mouth and cried harder.

“Love, shh,” Peter said, like it slipped out of his mouth. The way he gathered Stiles up on the hardest days, when he completely lost his shit and let the thoughts get the best of him. “Do you want me to come home or am I supposed to stay away?”

“It’s your house.”  

“I want to help you, but I understand if we need to start making arrangements for another situation.”

Stiles shook his head as his heart seized. This wasn’t right. No one should be that good. No one should love him that much to offer that. He ground his knuckles into his sternum and leaned into them.

“I don’t know,” Stiles said brokenly. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I love you. I don’t know how to handle this. I can’t leave him.”

“Do you still love him?”

Stiles nodded as fresh tears rushed down his face. “Yes.”

The line was quiet for a moment before heard the speaker crackle.

“Stop cheapening this with how it will end, Stiles,” Peter said. “When you’re ready for me to come home, call. Until then, you deserve to be alone.”

“You can’t mean that. You can’t be this good,” Stiles said.

“You know I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Peter said. “I love you very much.”

“I love you too. You know I do,” he said, breathing unevenly.

“I do,” Peter said. They sat in the silence before Stiles heard Peter shift again. “Go back to bed, Stiles,” he said quietly. “Call if you need anything.”

“I love you,” Stiles said again.

“I love you too,” Peter said. His voice sounded like velvet. It felt like warmth curling around him in the dark. “Good night, love.”

“Please don’t hate me,” Stiles said weakly.

Then he could feel a crash of warmth in his chest. It swelled up through his throat and fluttered in his stomach like drinking a shot of tequila and seeing a crush at the same time. The way he felt eventually when he would see Peter at the library, at the coffee shop, how Peter felt seeing him walk into every one of his classes, every day.

“You know how I feel about you,” Peter said softly.

“How fucked up is it that I want you here?” Stiles asked jaggedly. “Seeing him like this, it’s so fucking hard.”

“If you want me home I can be there tomorrow,” Peter said softly, soothing and the warmth in his chest turned more gentle, lulling. It felt like waves. It made the tips of his fingers tingle. He could almost feel the grains of sand under his toes in Mexico, the hot wind on his face where they laid on the beach. For a moment, everything was drowned under it and he was too selfish to tell Peter to stop.

“I don’t know what to do,” Stiles whispered again. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“I wish I knew what to say, but I’m here.”

“God fucking dammit,” Stiles said, fat tears slipping from his eyes again. “I don’t deserve this.”

“You deserve what you want.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is for you.”

Stiles swallowed hard and tried to fight back the tears, but it was a lost battle. Down the hall, Chris slept in a warm safe bed, outside of a hospital for the first time in five years, while Stiles sat on the phone with Peter, afraid to hang up and clinging to the feeling radiating through his body for possibly the last time as Peter soothed him like he always had.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be flashbacks in this story. I mark them with italics in the first sentence.

****

_Chris stood in the phone queue on the off hours_ and held the receiver to his ear as it took its time to connect, then he listened the fuzzy quality of the ringing. When Stiles answered, he leaned into the booth with his arm braced above.

“Hey, kid, what’s up?”

“Chris?”

“No one else is going to be calling you with a number like this, unless you’ve got pen pals I don’t know about.”

Stiles laughed and Chris smiled slightly.

“I can’t talk for long, but I wanted to call after your email. You sounded a little shaken up. Is it a good time?”

“Yeah, Dad’s at work.”

“What’s up?” he asked again.

“I just really wish I hadn’t done it,” Stiles said, laughing weakly and it felt like someone kicked Chris in the stomach. He knew he was upset from the email, but having it confirmed still hurt. “Like she’s nice, and everything, but I feel like I can’t get clean or something now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m the dumb ass who got shit-faced. And am now being stupid enough to cry about it to someone in a war zone.”

“Quit. It’s a big deal and it feels like shit. I was less than happy my first time too.”

“Was it a girl?”

“Unfortunately. I felt like I’d ruined something, but I hadn’t. You haven’t either. You’re so young. You’re going to have so many other chances.”

“Did you feel like shit after being with, I don’t know what to say, when you were with the kind of people you wanted to be with?”

Chris smiled slightly, because if anyone was listening to this conversation they would’ve caught on immediately that he was gay, but if they didn’t know that about him after nearly fifteen years then they never would. Not to mention the emails and letters he had sent to Stiles over the last seven months, where they broached the topic repeatedly.

“It felt like I wasn’t lying to myself when I slept with another man. I didn’t feel like I was hiding or ashamed.”

“That’s what it feels like right now,” Stiles said, then gave another little self-conscious laugh. “I really hate it. Then when I was leaving last night, I told Dad who I was going out with and I think he was excited that it was a girl.”

“Your dad doesn’t care who you like, Stiles. He thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”

Stiles laughed and it sounded more genuine.

“Stiles, he’s talked to me about this. He doesn’t care who you’re with,” he said. “But he knows it would be easier where you live if you were straight. That’s the only reason he might have been happy. He loves you so much he can’t stand the thought of you being unhappy.”

“He’s talked about it?”

“He has.” 

It felt like he was betraying a secret, but he knew without asking, John would want him to affirm it, because John loved his son more than life. He had said as much on the back porch when they were drinking, after Stiles had sat out with them for a few hours when he was fifteen and John had finally told Chris after Stiles had gone up to bed, that he thought he was gay. Chris had thought he was at least bisexual since the last year when he caught the kid looking at him a few times, mostly innocent, but definitely there. 

“You’ve got the best parents in the world, Stiles. You have to stop being so hard on yourself. They already know you.”

“Thanks ,” Stiles said quietly, and Chris could hear he was upset.

“You know I’m here. If you need to talk, just email. It might take me a day or so to get back to you, but I will.”

“Yeah I know,” Stiles said. “I’m really glad we started talking. I don’t know how I’d be dealing with this shit otherwise.”

“You’d be dealing with it fine. I’m just telling you what you already know.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Thanks. It really helped to actually talk to you.”

“Anytime.”

“Be careful okay? You gave me a few heart attacks the other week when you didn’t write back.”

“I was out of camp. I’ll try to give a heads up next time.”

Stiles laughed again. “Sorry. I sound like a nag.”

“No you don’t,” Chris said, but warmth flared in his chest.

“I just think about you a lot,” Stiles said. “And by extension worry, a lot.”

“It’d be hard to be offended by that,” he said, laughing slightly. “It’s just easy to forget that I should give you a heads up. I’m not used to talking to someone as often as we talk.”

“Because people fucking suck,” Stiles said. “Sorry. That’s shitty, but still. Just so you know, Dad asks me about you all the time. Every time I would get a letter he’d ask me how you were. Mom does too every time I go over there.”

“They’re good people.”

“Yeah, so are you,” Stiles said. “So be careful?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

Chris laughed slightly. “Promise.”

“Alright I’m sure this just racked up like a huge bill for you, so get off the phone.”

“Talk to you later, kid.”

“Email me.”

“Deal.”

“Bye.”

“Night,” Chris said.

“It’s like five o’clock here,” Stiles cut in.

“It’s four in the morning here,” Chris said. “So I’m going to go crash for a few more hours.”

“Holy shit, get off the phone. Go sleep.”

“I am.”

“Okay, good. Good night.”

“Night. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

Chris kept the phone to ear for a second more before he ended the call. He stood there for a few minutes, before he pushed himself back left the hut, going back to his own. He didn’t realize he was smiling until he sat on the edge of his bunk in the dark with the sound of other men sleeping around him. He dragged his hand down his face and ignored it as he unlaced his boots and crawled back until his blankets for another hour.

 

***

 

Chris expected disorientation when he woke up, but there wasn’t any. He felt the thickness of the sheets, the heaviness of the blanket, and the softness of the mattress. The hospitals hadn’t felt like that. The thin mats were laughable.  

He opened his eyes to the murky light and the hazy shape of Stiles beneath the covers.

His bladder ached as he pushed himself from the comfort of the bed. Tingles and shots of pain mixed, passing sharp down his back and in his knees with a dull ache in his jaw and behind his temples.

There was plush carpeting on the floor. It felt surreal not to feel dirt and coldness on his soles. It felt strange to feel the unnaturally warm air on his ass. He went forward slowly, his hand running over the mattress to keep the bed solid to his side. When he reached the end, he kept a hand in front of him to meet the wall before his face in the dim lighting.

It took time, but he reached the wall, then the bathroom door that swung open silently. He found the light then went toward the dark shape that could only be the toilet. Then he closed his eyes. Already he could feel them straining, and the headache threatening from it.

When he finished, he slowly made his way back to the bed. He saw movement from the corner of his eye before he heard the blanket being pulled back. He carefully laid back down before he moved closer and felt Stiles’s arm slip beneath his neck. He laid his cheek on Stiles’s shoulder, his lips nearly touching his chest as Stiles slid his other arm around his neck.

When Stiles started to slide his dull nails up his back between his shoulders, he squeezed his eyes closed. The tears were constant. He didn’t try to stop them as he pressed his face to Stiles’s chest.

 

When he woke up again, Stiles was still rubbing his back or had started again. He could feel him staring.

“I said don’t be a creep.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it,” Stiles said quietly.

Chris opened his eyes and looked at Stiles in what little light there was. His features were a blur, but he saw his hand as he moved, before he felt the soft touch of his thumb beneath his eye. Then he felt the dull spasm of his stomach before it gurgled.

Stiles laughed slightly, still touching his face. “It’s been doing that awhile.”

“Ignore it,” Chris said, closing his eyes again.

“Or we could get some food. Or I can bring it up here?”

Chris started to refuse again before the dull cramp squeezed his stomach again. Those were hunger pains. It was strange to put a word with it, like they had started to say in the hospital, where they fed him on a schedule and he had to eat if he was hungry or not. But he always was hungry, even when he thought he wasn’t, when started to eat what they gave him, he ate like a dog.

“We can go downstairs.”

Stiles helped him out of bed before he helped him into clothes, his clothes. He kept a hand on Stiles as they went down the stairs. Flares of pain went up his knees with each step. He gritted his teeth then stopped when it made the pain shoot through his jaw.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just laid still too long,” he said, following Stiles as he started to walk again. “I wouldn’t say no to one of my pain pills.”

“I’ll get them.”  

He led him to the room Chris thought was the kitchen. It was a big with huge windows that poured in light with dark masses on the walls that could only be cabinets. There was a sliding, the noise of wood on stone, before Stiles gave him a small push into a chair. He sat and immediately dropped his face into his hand, braced on the table. His knees ached, the right more than the left, and one of his hips.

“Where are your pills?”

“The smaller bag. One of the outer pockets.”

He heard Stiles leave and focused on breathing. He stretched his left leg beneath the table, flexed his toes and clenched his eyes at the flares of pain.

Stiles came back with rattling before Chris felt him near his side.

“Which one of these do you take daily?” Stiles asked, his voice pitched low like he was talking to himself. Then he kept talking to himself too quickly and low for Chris to understand. He didn’t try. He focused on breathing as the pain in his right leg throbbed so hot it passed into his groin.

“Give me the hydrocodone,” he said.

“Sorry,” Stiles said before he took his hand and turned it over, palm up to place a pill in it.

“Two.”  

“It says one. Fuck, whatever, you look like you’re about to fucking die,” Stiles said, dropping another into his hand. “Let me get you something to drink-.”

He put them in his mouth and chewed, wincing when the granulation caught in one of his bad teeth. Stiles put a glass beside him and he drank deeply after he swallowed, swishing and wincing at the pain that shot through his molars.

“What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t care.”

It was quiet before he heard a plastic sack then a metallic noise. He drank from the glass of water and thought of the way it went down his throat, the way it spread cold through his chest. He drank deeper, not feeling the grit of dirt on his tongue, or the murky taste of mud.

When he heard a spring, he jerked and slammed his knee against the table leg.

“Fuck,” Stiles said before he was touching his shoulders. Chris groaned between his teeth as he dropped his forehead against the table. Hot sweat sprang over his skin, from the noise of the fucking toaster as he recognized it and the wash of nearly blinding pain through his leg.

“Fuck. I wasn’t thinking,” Stiles said.

“It’s not your fault,” Chris said between his teeth, not lifting his head as he squeezed either side of his thigh above his knee. “It’s okay.” 

Stiles made a noise against the back of his neck before he stepped away. The refrigerator door opened and closed softly as Stiles barely made a noise. The blinding pain slowly subsided to an angry throb before Stiles put a plate beside him.

“It’s just toast. I’ll make something else. Just eat something before you puke,” Stiles said as he dropped into the chair beside him. “Are you okay?”

“It’s just my knee. I let it get too stiff.”

“And bashed it on the table.”

Chris reached until he felt Stiles’s hand.

“It’s going to take some time to get readjusted. It’s not your fault.”

Stiles picked up his hand and kissed his fingers like he had so many times since yesterday. “Eat. I don’t want you to get sick,” he said, before he stood up again.

Chris watched the shadow of his body moving around the room, opening a cabinet, the light of the fridge shinning out, then closing and making imprints on his eyes.

He ate the toast, his mouth flooding with spit at the saltiness of butter, the tingle of strawberry jelly on his tongue. It felt like he inhaled, and it was gone, he reached for another piece then pushed the plate away when he only felt crumbs. His mouth still swam, like he was starving even when his stomach felt full and tight.

“How do you want your eggs?” Stiles asked.

“Over medium,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Bacon?”

“Whatever you want. I’ll eat.”

“Okay,” Stiles said before a pan settled on the stove top with a clang. Gas. Stainless steel.

He ran his fingers over the table and felt the natural grain before he touched thick fabric. A table runner, but it was too dark to even guess at the color. He opened his eyes again and leaned toward a shape in the center. A smooth-sided bowl. He pulled it towards him until he could touch the fruit inside.

“Stiles?”

“Hm?”

He held up whatever was in his hand.

“It’s an apple?” Stiles said after a moment.

Chris put it down and picked up something less circular.

“Orange.”

Chris dropped it to the table and Stiles laughed.

“Still no oranges.”

“Taste-.”

“Like vomit, yeah, fucking weirdo,” Stiles said.

Chris smiled slightly before he took the last two things.

“Pear and a green apple. They should still be good.”

The skin of the apple popped under his teeth and he closed his eyes at gush of juice. Then he winced at the sharp pain through his jaw and down his neck. He shifted the food over and chewed on the other side.

The heat of the pain pills was starting in his toes and crept of his calves, beating in his thighs, up through his stomach and making his head foggy.

He heard something rattle on the counter.

“Hey,” Stiles said.

Chris almost answered as he took another bite before Stiles kept talking.

“Yeah, he’s right here. I’m feeding him breakfast…. Yeah, lunch I guess…. That’s fine…. Yeah that’d be great. I don’t have a ton of shit to cook in the house…. Thanks…. Love you too.”

Chris finished with the first apple and picked up the other.

“That was Mom. She’s going to bring a meat loaf.”

“I love her meatloaf.”

Then Stiles’s warm palm slid up his neck and into to the base of his hair before he put a plate in front of him.

“So I need to start keeping apples apparently.”

“I’ve craved fruit for awhile.”  

“So fruit is good,” Stiles said, sliding his hands over his shoulders and massaging into the muscle, pressing his weight into them. “What else?”

“Beef. If I eat another fucking chicken in my life I’ll scream. No rice. Ever.”

“But what sounds good?”

“Fruit and steak until I explode.”

He felt Stiles laugh against his hair before he kissed his head. “Alright, but right now eat the eggs before they get cold.”

Chris twisted until he could slide his arm around Stiles’s waist. He pulled him down until Stiles lifted his chin and kissed him. It started soft until Chris pushed with the veil of pain medication pumping beneath his skin, making him hot all over. Stiles sat in his lap then lifted up like he was burned.

“Does that hurt?”

“No,” Chris said, pulling him back down onto his left thigh.

Stiles slid his arms around his neck and let Chris kiss him, taking in the taste of his mouth and the soft way his lips and tongue pressed against his own. Even after last night, it wasn’t enough. He could breathe in the taste of him for hours. Stiles pressed against his chest the same way, so he let himself kiss him until long after his plate was cold and his leg had gone numb.

  

 

After they ate, Stiles sat on the section in the den. The TV was on low and Chris was sleeping with his feet on his lap. On screen, he was watching a movie he had seen too many times while he scrolled through his phone one-handed and rubbed Chris’s calves with the other.

His mom had texted him awhile ago, saying her and his dad were on their way. Otherwise there was nothing, radio silence. He looked down the couch at Chris turned in towards the back cushions, the throw he put over him just passed his elbow. His eyes had been glazed for about half an hour before he crashed with over 20 mg of hydrocodone in his blood.  

He stared at him while he could and though of stretching out beside him on the wide cushions. After dinner, he would take him back up to the bedroom and they could watch TV in there, with plenty of room to lay however they wanted.

When he heard a car pull up, he gently lifted Chris’s feet from his lap and got up, going down the hall to answer the door before they could ring the bell. His parents were coming up the front steps when he stepped out onto the porch.  

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” his mom said with a foil-covered pan in her hands.

Stiles held the door for her then his dad right behind. John patted his back as he stepped into the foyer and Stiles let the screen door close.

“Where’s Chris?” Claudia asked.

“Passed out in the den,” Stiles said, leading them into the kitchen. “Are you going to eat with us?”

“We can if you want, but if you think it would be better we can go,” Claudia said.

“No, stay,” Stiles said, taking the pan from her. “What should I put the oven on?”

“Just enough to heat it up.”

His dad was already sitting at the table. His mom started digging through the cabinets, taking down two glasses and filling them with ice while he keyed in the temperature and times. Stiles looked up when he heard footsteps in the hallway, then Chris came in carefully like the walls were going to rearrange themselves just to fuck with him.

“We didn’t mean to wake you up,” Claudia said.

“You’re fine. Some of the medications knock me out,” he said, coming into the room and holding out his arm. Claudia took the hint and hugged him. “John,” he said, patting his shoulder as he came to sit in the chair beside him. John squeezed his hand.

“Do you want something to drink?” Stiles asked.

“Please.”

“Coke?”

Chris nodded.

Instead of running the ice maker, Stiles opened the freezer door and dug in the bin.

“Does your head hurt?” he heard his mom ask.

“It’s fine,” Chris said.

“I can give you another pain pill,” Stiles said, putting the glass at his fingertips.

“They don’t work for the headaches,” Chris said. “It barely hurts.”

Stiles sat on Chris’s other side. As soon as he did, Chris reached for his hand and Stiles twisted their fingers together.

“I saw the news piece finally,” John said. “They kept it quiet.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. They weren’t supposed to be there,” Chris said.

“No, but when has that stopped them?” John asked.

“Send it to me,” Stiles said.

“Sure,” his dad said before he looked back at Chris. “They said the reporter is recovering. The British soldier is still in the hospital.”

“He was newer. They were hard on him.”

“Poor bastard.”

Stiles’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he lifted to dig it out. A junk email. He moved it to the trash as his mom asked Chris something more mundane. When he looked up, his dad was frowning at him. Stiles raised his brow before John look at the phone and shook his head, looking back at Chris.

“It was a fucking email,” he said.

“I didn’t ask,” John said.

“Good because it’s none of your fucking business.”

“Stiles,” Claudia said, at the same time Chris squeezed his hand.

“Easy,” he said under his breath.

John just looked like he had been slapped and Stiles looked down at the table, propping his head on his hand before he picked up his phone and threw it on the ground. It skidded beneath the ledge of the cabinets. Both of his parents stared at him, but Chris just dropped his hand between his shoulders, probably not knowing what had dropped.

“Sorry. I got like three hours of sleep,” Stiles said.

“You’re fine,” John said.

His mom and Chris started to talk again but he squeezed his head between his palms before he stood to go to the bathroom a few minutes later. He heard a chair push out as he left the room. He waited down the hall, knowing it was his dad before he came around the corner. John just frowned at him before he squeezed his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” Stiles said before he grabbed his dad’s t-shirt at his side and pulled him into a hug. “Sorry,” he said against his shoulder.

John patted his back. “Just hate the idea of this getting messy. None of you deserve it.”

“I know,” he said, keeping his voice low like John. “I told Peter, just so you know, so he’s not going to walk in on it.”

“How did he take it?”

“Weirdly good?” Stiles said, his voice breaking in a question as his eyes watered and the knot that had been lodged in his chest since last night festered. “He said we could stay. He must be in shock. I don’t know,” he said, wiping beneath his eyes as they threatened to spill.

“I guess that’s better than the alternative.”  

“Yeah, I guess.”  

“I’m sorry. I know you had a good thing with him.”

“Whatever, fuck this pity party,” he said, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyelids. “Chris can barely fucking walk and I’m sad about a fucking break-up.”

“I wish I knew what to tell you,” John said.

Stiles sniffed to clear his nose before he stepped away. “I actually do have to piss, so I’ll be back in there in a second.”

John nodded before he walked back towards the kitchen where he could hear his mom and Chris talking. He took his time in the bathroom and when he came out his mom was setting the table and his dad was pulling the pan of meat loaf and mashed potatoes from the stove.

He sat and ate with his family, with Chris asking Claudia and John questions about the last five years of their lives until they were talking unprompted, getting that he just wanted to know. He wanted to know the things he missed and it kicked Stiles in the chest repeatedly as he watched Chris’s face change with bullshit that had happened three years ago.

The first time he heard Chris laugh, his real full laugh, the tears slammed him. Chris didn’t notice, but his dad saw from the corner of his eye and gave him a weak smile before his mom reached out and squeezed his free wrist. He refilled his and Chris’s drinks so Chris wouldn’t notice and luckily he didn’t. He kept talking with John and laughed again at some story Stiles had heard repeatedly over the last few years.

When John told Peter the same story, he had laughed too, on the back porch of his dad’s house. One of the first times they had shared a beer and it looked like John was actually willing to not hold the fact that he wasn’t Chris against him.

Claudia came over to the sink with him and helped him wash dishes, saying nothing as he tried to get himself together.

“It feels like a time warp, doesn’t it?” she asked quietly.

Stiles nodded, staring down at his hands as his eyes beaded with water as he passed soapy dishes to his mom and he listened to his dad and Chris talk, in a way that Peter and John had never managed, because Peter wasn’t John’s friend. He was Stiles’s fiancé, and that is all he had ever been. John and Chris talked like friends, because they were, they had been for years before Stiles ever entertained a thought about Chris, before he was even born. They were family in such an easy way he felt like his guts were about to spill on the floor at hearing it again.

Claudia took his arm at one point and pulled him through a door behind Chris. It led out to the sunroom and as soon as they were in there, Stiles sank to the floor and put his head between his knees as hard jagged sobs washed over him.

His mom sat beside him and hugged him as much as she could.

He never had any right to bring anyone else into this. He hadn’t even waited for a body before he brought someone else into his family, cramming them into a place that would only ever be filled by Chris. Even if he would miss Peter’s smart ass mouth, and he would miss being the one person that was allowed to see who Peter really was.

He hated that he ever spoke to Peter, for ever going anywhere near him, while Chris was suffering and scared. He bit into his fist to keep from crying loudly as he struggled to breathe.

“Stiles.”

He felt his mom pull away as he looked up at Chris in the doorway. He sank to the ground before Stiles could stand and he watched him wince as he did it before he put his arm around him. He should be telling Chris to get off the floor, but he was a proven selfish piece of shit, so he didn’t.

He pressed his face into the thick soft cotton of Chris’s shirt and felt his arms wrap around him.

“You’re alright,” Chris said softly against his cheek as he ran his fingers through his hair.

He felt his mom’s thin hand on his back before she kissed the back of his head. “We’re going to leave, sweetheart. Call me in the morning.”

Stiles nodded, not wanting to speak, because his voice would break.

“Thank you for bringing dinner,” Chris said.

Stiles heard her kiss Chris’s cheek then her walking away. Chris tightened his hands on him and he sank into the heat of his large solid body and the way he held him, like he was safe. It was just the placement of their bodies and it still tricked his mind into easing its death grip.

“Eventually we’re going to stop crying at the drop of a hat,” Chris said, dragging his lips against his cheek.

“Maybe,” he said, laughing weakly. He felt Chris’s lips curve slightly against his skin. “I forgot how good that felt,” he whispered. “A quarter of the family was gone and I forgot how easy it was when we’re together.”

Chris kissed him before he laid his cheek against his. He felt better and worse when he felt his face was wet too.

“We missed you so much.”  

Chris just squeezed him more tightly. They were nearly the same size, but it felt like being enveloped and his warmth sank passed his skin and deep into his body in a way he had forgotten was possible as the tears slowly subsided and still neither of them moved. 

 

 _The first time_ _he saw Stiles after they started to send letters then email, Stiles was eighteen._

Barely a week over eighteen.

Chris had been home from his fifth deployment for a month before he called John and asked if he could come down. They planned to fish, stay out for the night and camp. He got there a few hours before John and Stiles were supposed to show. He set his tent, laid out his tackle, and set his wrought iron pole stands in the ground.

He was laying the rocks for a fire pit when he heard rattling on the narrow dirt path that came from the main highway. He smiled slightly at the powder blue CJ Stiles had sent him a picture of the day John and Claudia bought it for him almost a year ago.

He had sent him another a few weeks ago of him cleaning it, his t-shirt turned transparent.

Stiles had jumped out as soon as it rolled to a stop. His face nearly split with a smile before he started walking towards Chris then he jogged the last few steps and smacked into him, squeezing him. He’d known Stiles since he was in diapers and still it was the first time he ever hugged him.

“Holy shit, you’re here,” Stiles said, laughing.

Chris hugged him back. A body felt so much smaller without layers of body armor and gear. He could feel the bones of him under his skin and he couldn’t remember the last time he felt someone that way. 

When they pulled away, Stiles had looked up at him. Until Stiles sent him the first of the pictures and he was left with nothing else to focus on, he never noticed the dark moles on his cheeks and his neck. They led a trail behind his ear. Spit pooled under his tongue. Stiles stared at him, still smiling before he laughed and looked away.

“Sorry, it’s just weird. I’ve been so fucking excited. Sorry, if that’s weird, and I’ll shut up now, because now I’m making it weird,” he said, laughing again with red tracing up his neck.

“No you’re not,” he said, squeezing Stiles’s shoulder. 

“And,” Stiles said, shrugging, looking up at him before looking away. “Dad’s not coming. Which if you want to call it and come out when he can get off work, that’s fine, but he got called in.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“I’m fine with staying out with you,” Stiles said.

“It’s not going to make you feel weird to stay out with your dad’s friend?”

Stiles snorted as he brushed passed him. “Dad hasn’t been writing your sandy ass for a year straight. Pretty sure that makes me your friend.”

He knew he should call John and reschedule, even go to John’s house with Stiles where he could be reminded with memories that this was a terrible idea. The warm flutters in his stomach and the way he could still feel where Stiles has brushed passed him, it all blared that this was a nightmare in the making, but as Stiles took out his tackle box and fishing pole, he couldn’t do it. Stiles smiled at him and he felt a like his chest had liquefied through his limbs.

It was wrong and he already hated himself, but he couldn’t stop.

 

***

 

The next morning, Stiles cut the pear Chris had left yesterday with strawberries in the fridge before he threw together meatloaf sandwiches and put them on the table where Chris sat. It was still before noon, but he wasn’t sure how long before. His phone was still on the floor and he didn’t want to turn it back on and see nothing on the screen. If he was lucky it would be broken from its crash against the tile.

“Is there somewhere we can walk?” Chris asked, ignoring the sandwich for the bowl of fruit between them.

“Yeah.”

“Do you have to drive to it?”

“No. There’s a trail behind the house back to the river. We can go down after we eat.”  

“Good,” Chris said. “I need to walk more. I can’t keep letting it lock up like this.”

“We can do that.”

Chris felt along the table until he touched the pills Stiles laid there before he started making breakfast or lunch, whatever it was. With the sky gray outside it was hard to tell. He put them in his mouth and drank them down, never opening his eyes. 

“Does it help to keep your eyes closed?”

Chris nodded. “I get migraines if I try to focus too long.”

Stiles squeezed his hand.

When they finished eating, he took his bowl and Chris’s plate to the sink. He nearly flipped on the disposal to choke down the scraps before he stopped.  

“Can I run the disposal?”

Chris nodded. He flipped the switch by the sink and let it gurgle for a second before it cleared. Then he took Chris’s pills from the cabinet and read the instructions on them again.

“Do you need a pain pill before we go?”

“Give me one in case.”

“We need to get a pill box,” he said.

“It’d make life easier.”  

Stiles dumped another pill into his palm and took Chris’s hand, turning it up and sliding the pill over. Chris put it in his mouth and swallowed with his face tilted toward the ceiling.

“What are all these for?”

“I’m not sure. One’s for migraines, another for high blood pressure.”

“I’ll look them up when we get back. I don’t want them giving you shit you don’t need.”

“Knock yourself out.”  

Stiles leaned against the counter, staring at him for a moment before straightened. “Come on. Let’s get dressed,” he said, touching Chris’s arm and helping him stand.

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles held Chris’s hand as they walked down the dirt path through the thin line of woods separating the house from the river. Peter had done work when he bought the property, clearing some of the undergrowth, discouraging new growth so what was there could grow larger and spread.

He looked up at the sky and the lattice work of limbs that rose above the path. The trees had grown a few feet in the last year. Their leaves had stayed green until only a month ago when a hard frost finally turned them brown and brittle, like the rest of the foothills had been for weeks.

Still, no thorns laid over the path, no errant weeds. It was like an invisible wall stood between the edge of the path and the grass. It was a smooth gradient, no big rocks, nothing, and neither he or Peter had physically laid a hand on any of it.

“When did you move out here?” Chris asked.

“Less than a year ago.”  

“When did you lose the house?”

Stiles glanced at Chris, in his black baseball cap, his dark canvas jacket. When he was looking down, he couldn’t see the fucked up color of his eyes and his chest constricted. For a split second he looked so much like himself it felt like déjà vu.

“About four months after you went missing,” he said. “The bank tried to help out, but their hands were tied.”

Chris shook his head. “I should’ve had something in place.”

“Something in place to pay off a house? It was out of your hands.”

“I was putting too much into my retirement plan.”

“Because who the fuck needs that, right?” he asked. “Give yourself a break. I didn’t want to be in the house when I knew there was a chance you wouldn’t be coming back anyway. It was like everything I looked at, everything I touched was mocking me. The only thing I hated was knowing that when you came home, that’s where you’d want to go, and I couldn’t keep it for you.”

“I didn’t think about coming back to the house,” Chris said, squeezing his hand.

Stiles leaned in and kissed his cheek. Chris stopped and turned in to kiss him fully, his stubble scratched against his face, and it still fed heat under his skin even after last night of kissing until his lips and neck were raw from Chris’s teeth and beard. It was short but they lingered for a second before they kept walking.

When they stepped out of the trees the river ran only a few yards away.

The wind cut down the pass above the water, blowing icy on their faces. It flowed by gray and brown against the mud banks. Chris walked in front of him with his hands in his jacket pockets. Stiles opened his mouth to warn him about a tree branch, but Chris stepped over without pause.

 “Do you fish out here?”

“I have a few times.”

“What have you caught?”

“Small mouth and catfish.”

He came down with his dad not long after Peter bought the property. He had set out Chris’s black tackle box and it had felt like being hit with a truck to touch his things. The past March, he came down and set a tent, laid the rocks for a fire pit and stayed out all night, listening to the water and the insects in the trees.

“You don’t have neighbors, do you?”

“No.”

Chris squinted at the opposing bank where there were only trees. It wasn’t like farther upriver where houses were built across from each other. They were perfectly secluded, on their own, no rafts came by from the touring companies in the summer and spring, no loud drunks, or college kids.

“How did you afford this?” Chris asked, looking back at him. There was a crease between his eyes.

“It was a foreclosure.”

Cold sweat beaded at his hairline as his mouth dried before Chris nodded, and the moment passed.

“You can’t beat that.”

“No, I was lucky.”

Chris held out his arm and Stiles stepped close enough to put his arms around him. Chris kissed his cheek. His face was cold. His ears were turning red from the wind.

“It feels good to just be able to walk.”

“I bet,” he said, but he buried his face against Chris’s jacket, because he couldn’t say anything substantial to that. He couldn’t imagine how it felt to be able to stand outside, to feel the wind, the cold, and hear the water, and know he was home. So he just squeezed him and waited until Chris took his hand and started back on the path to the house. 


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Stiles sat at Peter’s desk in the office, logging on to his dashboard for the school. He sent out an email telling his students he’d be back in the classroom on Monday before he started to print the few Comp II papers that had been submitted, although the deadline wasn’t until midnight.

Chris came in while the printer was whirling. Stiles watched him running his hand over the wall to his side, looking around.

“Office?” Chris asked.

“Mhm.”  

He came to the wall that ran behind the desk and stared at the books stacked from the built in bench below to the ceiling. They were all Peter’s books that looked good put out, psychology, theory, anatomy, and occult with symbols and titles Stiles didn’t understand. He turned in Peter’s soft leather chair and watched Chris take books out and hold them close to his face, angling the covers so the light from the window shone on the metallic titles.

“Did you get in to classics?” Chris asked.

“If you haven’t read Joyce they’ll ostracize you,” Stiles said, not a lie, but not the truth. There were a few books of Hemingway, Joyce, and Faulkner on his bookshelves by the bed in his and Peter’s room, but they didn’t get touched as often as the commercial crime and grit lit he loved.

“I’m going to take a shower, get around,” Chris said, sliding the book back into place.

“Do you want company?”

“You need to get some work done,” Chris said.

“The little fuckers can wait.”

“That wasn’t what you were saying when you were waiting to have papers graded.”

“I was a little fucker too.”

Chris smiled slightly before he held out his hand. Stiles laced their fingers together and squeezed softly, staring at Chris’s swollen knuckles against his own.

“When are you going back?”

“Monday. I don’t have any more time off. I don’t like leaving you,” Stiles said, kissing his fingers, before dragging his lips across them.

“Your life isn’t going to stop because I showed back up. I didn’t expect it to.”

“It’d be nice if it would. At least for a few weeks.”

Chris ran rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand before he stepped back. “When I get out I need to walk again.”

“Ok,” he said.

Chris lingered for a moment before he turned and left the room, the same slow careful way he had come in. It felt so normal it was almost unsettling, but he still smiled slightly before he turned back to the computer.

 

 

Chris hated not knowing what the house looked like.

The first day he was there, they never finished looking around. The day after, he didn’t particularly care to, and the day after that the walk to the river had been enough. His leg had beat with its own searing pulse until he sat on the couch downstairs and stretched it in front of him. It still hadn’t been comfortable until he took more of his pills and knocked himself out.

He could feel the carpet, tile, and wood, see the clean lines of the walls and furniture, but they were all pieces of a puzzle that weren’t forming a whole picture. Downstairs he had somewhat mapped, at least the area from the back porch that attached to the kitchen, the kitchen to the hallway that went to the foyer, the foyer that emptied into the living room. It was enough that he didn’t feel completely disoriented.

Upstairs, he knew nothing beyond the bedroom and the office he found Stiles in earlier.

After his shower, he walked across the hallway upstairs to the office. The large desk he never would’ve pictured for Stiles dominated the rear of the room with the bookcase towering above. It was all older, more mature than he pinned for Stiles, but it was probably left over from the previous owners.

He passed that room and went farther down the hall, seeing slants of light pouring on the carpet through open doors as he dragged his hand down the walls, opening any closed door he met. There was a linen closet down from the office, a bathroom down from the linen closest, then at the end of the hall a multi-pane window that took up the expanse of the wall.

Through it he could see the silhouette of woods, taller trees that towered above the rest, but few were even with his eye level, they all sloped down and away into a dark mass. The house was on a hill. He hadn’t realized that, even from the walk last night when he should have, because coming back up the incline from the river had been murder.

Then he walked down the other side of the hall, a bedroom with nothing in it. There was a long stretch of blank wall before he reached the next door. It was the only closed door aside from the closet. He slid his hand down the inlayed wood until he found the handle and twisted it open.

A large bed dominated the room with a window pouring light in from the far side. He stepped in carefully, feeling his knee threatening to lock up as he slowed.

The room had more in it than the one he and Stiles’s slept in. There were two dressers on opposite sides of the room, two end tables. There were lamps on the tables, huge pictures on the walls that looked like abstract swatches of art.

He went to one of the doors he could see, a bathroom. It was bigger than the one in the other room. There were bottles along the tub edge, a toothbrush holder by the sink with two in it. There was a tray beside one of them, he fingered through the change, listening to it scrape about the cool ceramic shaped like a leaf.

He frowned when he felt something large, smoother and cool. When he picked it out, he stilled.

He forgot the throb building in his leg and the headache starting at his temples as he stared and all the missing pieces began to fall into place with the answer he had already known but ignored.

 

 

 

 

Stiles sat on the couch downstairs as Chris was upstairs, getting around and taking his time with it. He chewed on the cap of his pen as he graded with music turned low. When he finally heard Chris come down the stairs, he looked up and started to smile, before he saw the look on Chris’s face right before he dropped his engagement ring on the coffee table.

Then it felt like his skin shrank as instant sweat prickled his hairline.  

“You’re married.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m not. I was engaged.”

“When?”

“Chris,” he said, moving the papers from his lap and reaching toward him, but he stepped back.

“Are you engaged now?”

“No.”

“When did you break it off?”

“As soon as I talked to you. As soon as I knew you were coming home, I promise-.”

 “Where is she?”

“He. He’s in California with his family.”  

“You said you were engaged,” Chris said, his mouth turned down.

“I was.”

“Then you weren’t engaged, Stiles,” he said sharply.

Stiles paused, not sure how Chris meant that before he realized why Chris looked overly confused layered with pissed off.  

“They legalized it a year ago,” he said.

Chris’s eyes were as focused as Stiles had seen them. They made his stomach turned. For a split moment, he could remember the clear color they had been and how hard they could look when he was furious. Now they looked emotionless. All the rest of his face carried the weight and it was still staggering.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”  

“How was I supposed to?” Stiles asked, reaching out again and grabbing Chris’s hand. “It’s already broken off-.”

“I have places I can go, Stiles. I can never give you anything like this.”

“Like what?” 

“This house or anything like it. If you were happy this is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Stiles asked.

“I can’t see. I can’t walk-.”

“That’s quite the fucking upgrade since I thought you were dead,” he said, letting his hand drop. “What the fuck do you want to hear? I was ecstatic when I thought you were dead? My life was so much better without you in it?  Go fuck yourself, Chris,” he said. “I was devastated. Every single day I thought about you. I wondered where you were. Half the time I wanted to die so I wouldn’t have to think about you in pain. I could only sleep if I told myself you were dead, because at least you wouldn’t be in pain, you wouldn’t be scared.”

“Stiles,” Chris said, his face softening even when the hardest lines stayed.

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how much that has to hurt. God, I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, sitting back on the couch as his heart fluttered in his chest. He put his head in his hand to keep from having to look at him.

He heard his weight shift in the bloated silence. It felt like the air was prickling him before he listened to Chris step back as he left the living room. He listened until he heard the sliding of the glass door in the kitchen, then the thud of its closure before he tried to breathe and couldn’t.

As he closed his eyes and laced his fingers behind his neck, trying to focus on breathing, it came out jagged, and more jagged until he was crying again. In the muted noise of trying to keep his tears quiet, all he could latch on to was he wished he had Peter there. Against all logic, he wished he could have his logic, and his calm reasoning when everything kept pitching from side to side.

 

 

Chris stayed on the back porch for a long time. He ignored the cold of the wood burrowing into his feet even when it made them ache. He walked up and down the length of it before he sat in one of the rockers.

It felt like being sucker punched. Having his knee crushed was easier, that had only been pain, horrific mind-numbing pain, but only physical. This was closer to water boarding. As he put his head in his hands and inhaled the cool air, it was the only thing keeping him fine.

He could breathe. There wasn’t a reason to panic if he could still breathe.

So he inhaled again, closed and opened his eyes, darkness to floorboards, dark to boards repeatedly as he tried to keep from fixating.

When his heartbeat wouldn’t slow, he gave in and sank to the floor. He sat against the wall of the house and brought his knees to his chest. He was humiliated at the thought of Stiles coming outside, but it felt like if he couldn’t sit alone, his head on his knees, and breathing he would scream. And if he started to scream there was the ever present fear he wouldn’t be able to stop.

 

 

 

Stiles went into the kitchen after his heart didn’t feel like it was going to beat out of his chest, and picked up his phone where he left it a few nights before. The screen was cracked, but it lit up as he unlocked it. There were texts from his mom and dad, even one from Scott, but he ignored them. He pulled up Peter’s information and nearly texted him, what he didn’t know before the sliding glass came open and Chris came in.

His face was pale and there was a sheen on his forehead before he rubbed it away. Then he leaned back against the counter, heavily as his head dropped forward.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you want?”

“You, that’s not even a question,” he said.

Stiles saw his throat move as he swallowed. His stubble-covered chin shook before he covered it with his hand.

“I never meant to come home and fuck things up for you. That isn’t what I wanted.”

Having his insides ripped out through his mouth would’ve been easier than seeing Chris shaky. Than seeing him pale and uncertain. Stiles put his hands on either side of him on the counter before he hugged him tightly.

 “You haven’t fucked anything up. I needed you so much, I missed you so much.”  

“I don’t need you to stay for pity,” he said. “I’m not the same person I was. As I get settled that’s only going to show more. You don’t owe me anything.”

 “Do you still love me?” Stiles asked, close enough that he could see the individual lashes around Chris’s eyes, the different shades of gray, and the red and purple veins.  

“Of course I do.”  

“Then what the fuck makes you think that changed?” he asked before he brushed his lips over Chris’s and pulled back. “I started to feel things again with him, but even the good things felt like I was seeing them through glass. I couldn’t touch any of it. I couldn’t feel it.

“This feels real,” he said before he kissed Chris’s cheek softly.

Chris kissed him back when he leaned into him before he hugged him tightly, squeezing him until it had to hurt. He felt Chris rubbing his forehead against his shoulder like he was trying to burrow into it.

 

 

 

Stiles waiting until that night to call Peter. He waited until Chris had been asleep before he went onto the porch and put his phone to his ear. It only rang twice before Peter answered.

“Hello,” Peter said.

“Hey,” he said, wiping the bottom of his nose.

“How are you?”

Stiles shrugged, before he shook his head. “We talked and we’re going to move out. He’s been paid out, so we’re going to find a house. I don’t know how long that will take. I just wanted to let you know. If we need to move in with Dad or Mom until then, then we can.”

“Stay as long as you need.”

“And what’re you going to do?”

“I can stay here.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Hardly. They’re happy to have me.”

Stiles rubbed his hand down his face.

“When do you go back to work?” Peter asked.

“Monday.”

“I wish you had more leave.”

“Yeah. I don’t know. After winter break I’m going to take a semester leave.”

Peter hummed and Stiles could see the way he would be barely shaking his head.

“They’ve already assigned you for classes.”

“They could find someone else if they had to.”

“It won’t leave a good taste in their mouths.”

“If they can’t understand, then I can always find another school.”

“Where?” Peter asked, “You won’t find another campus that matches you as well.”

“It is what it is,” he said, then shook his head when he realized what a piece of shit he was being. “This isn’t your problem. I just wanted to let you know, we’ll be out as soon as we can. And if you want that to be sooner, then just let me know.”

“I won’t change my mind. You don’t need to worry about that on everything else.”

Stiles swallowed before he shook his head. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“I guess I’ll talk to you later. I love you-,” he said, before he bit off the end.

“I love you too,” Peter said before he could take it back.

It made tears sting his eyes as the trees behind the house turned blurry. “Bye.”

When Peter said it back, he hung up before he dropped into one of the rockers. He leaned his head back and stared off the porch. He didn’t know how long he sat out there, but eventually the coyotes began to howl. He closed his eyes and listened to them far closer to the porch than they ever dared come when Deuc was outside, the deep reverberation of his howl keeping them at bay.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I posted a version of this chapter a week or two ago. Was shit. This is the updated chapter. After the first few sections with Chris and Stiles, everything else is different. Fucking WIPs.

There was pressure on his chest.

When he breathed in, his nose and throat burned. He choked on his own scream and the water flooding his lungs. Somewhere, something was beeping. It sounded like a detonator, but beneath the water, he shouldn’t hear it.

With the hand keeping him pressed under it shouldn’t be so loud.

 

“Chris,” Stiles said, touching Chris’s chest after he had turned off his alarm.

Chris’s breathing staggered again, a long pause then a choked off inhale before his eyes shot open. They flicked from side to side before he heaved in more air.

“You’re okay,” he said quietly. His heart hammered under his palm.

His face was pale in the milky light creeping through the curtains, making red and purple veins seem darker in his eyes. They looked so dry, irritated and red. 

“I don’t want to leave,” he said softly, touching the stiff stubble on his face. There was so much gray, it shone like galvanized wire.

“Don’t,” Chris said, his voice low before he cleared his throat.

He needed to get up, take his shower, get around, but he didn’t, he touched Chris’s face and followed the tiny pale scars scattered across his skin from his last tour and ones before. He remembered the mornings pushing Chris out of bed, when he had to be on the base so much earlier than he had to be in class. His eyes stung.

Chris pulled him until Stiles was laying on top of him, sliding his thigh between Chris’s legs. Their mouths were stale, but it didn’t keep Stiles from kissing Chris deeper or Chris opening wider and letting him. 

He needed to get up, but having no shower, not packing a lunch, starting class late, nothing so trivial was worth leaving the bed before Chris had what he needed. Stretching himself again barely hurt. It was nothing to having Chris inside him, feeling the way his body slumped when he was, like it was all he needed.

They moved a few half-hearted times, laying on their side, facing each other, the angle shallow. Then Chris hugged him, his face against the curve of his neck.

Stiles ran his fingers through his short hair and felt him start to soften where he was sore and too dry. The stinging burn simmered into something warm as he listened to Chris’s deep steady breathing without the small noises he had made off and on during the night.

 

 

Stiles had been gone for hours by the time Chris gave up sleep and stared at the whiteness of the ceiling. His head pounded, like he had slept too long when he had hardly slept at all. There were a few fleeting minutes at a time before he woke again to a moment of panic before he felt Stiles’s arm over him and his chest pressed to his side.

He pulled himself up, tired, but unwilling to deal with another round of panic and frustration. He skipped the shower or the tub even when he felt he needed it after sweating so heavily. The thought of water touching his face made his mouth metallic, and went to go downstairs.

The stairs were dangerous with his knee stiff, but he took them slowly, gripping the railing in one hand and taking each step at a snail’s pace until his feet met the cool wood of the lower floor.

In the hospital they told him he needed physical therapy. They also told him he needed a cane or a walker. As he dropped onto the couch in the living room, he regretted ignoring the cane at the very least. His stomach trembled with a weak empty noise. Nausea crept up the back of his throat, diluted acid, that slid back down when he swallowed. He wanted breakfast, but with the pain beating hot in his knee and up into his thigh and hip, the hunger that pushed him downstairs in the first place flagged.

Then he remembered the pills Stiles put beside the bed before he left.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and breathed out, trying to build up the nerve to go back up at some point, for pills he couldn’t remember what they did. It could wait. If he went back up now, he would fall. Instead, he fumbled with the remote on the coffee table and turned on the TV to have some noise to fill the silence.

 

“Chris?”

Chris jerked, starting to pull himself up before he was fully awake, not realizing he’d fallen asleep in the first place. Someone was in the living room archway. Then something cold touched his fingers digging into the couch cushions. He flinched, looking down at a large dog that had squeeze between the coffee table and couch.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Chris looked back at the man in the doorway, not having to guess who it was. The dog was too calm. The man was too calm. The way he walked into the room and sat in the chair across the coffee table was too relaxed.

“I knocked, but obviously you didn’t hear,” he said. “I’m Peter. It’s nice to meet you.”

Chris put his leg down and pushed himself upright.

The dog was still smelling him. He turned up his palm, let it sniff, not taking his eyes away from the man sitting across from him, Stiles’s fiancé.  

“That’s strange. He doesn’t normally take to new people,” Peter said.

Chris didn’t realize what he was talking about until he felt the dog lay at his feet, his warm ribs pressed against his ankle.

“Sometimes people look nothing how you expect them to,” Peter said. “I don’t know why that happens, but sometimes when the people who love them most tell stories, an image is constructed that doesn’t resemble the person at all. Not with you.”

He had a low quiet voice.

“I think I could’ve picked you out on the street on his stories alone,” Peter said.

Despite himself, it was melodic.

He could feel Peter looking at him, so he looked at the floor, at the dark shape of the dog laid over his feet. It was the length of the coffee table and thick. It made the shepherds he served with seem small.

“What do you want?” Chris asked.

“To meet you, talk to you,” Peter said. “If he wasn’t being so neurotic, I would’ve come when he was here, but you have set his hackles on end. He’s quite the little mother hen.”

The pause dragged. He could feel Peter staring at him.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” Chris said.

“I didn’t come here to make you feel uncomfortable. It’s unavoidable, but it isn’t intentional,” Peter said. Chris had nothing to say, so he didn’t say anything. “This is your first day without him, how is that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“With your eyesight,” Peter said. “It can’t be easy getting accustomed to.”

“I’ve been blind for a long time.”

“But not in this setting.”

“Why would this be any different?”

“You weren’t free before. Losing your eyesight was only one more thing taken away. Now you can do whatever you’d like up to your own limitations. When Stiles is here, I’m sure those limitations have a higher threshold.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

Peter laughed. It was just the nose of air leaving his nose before Chris watched him pull his ankle over his knee and lean back in the chair. He thought his hair was light brown or blonde. Not being able to see was making his head pound.  

“I’m sure you have.”

“I didn’t know about you,” Chris said when the silence dragged again. “When he brought me here, I wouldn’t have come into your house.”

“This is his home. Of course he brought you here.”

The strongest light was to Peter’s back. It made his face too dark. It was hard to read his expression. Reading his tone was harder.

“What do you want?” he finally asked when Peter just continued to stare back.

“To meet you,” Peter said again.

“You’ve met me.”

The light shifted just enough on his face to know he was smiling. The hair on the back of Chris’s neck was rising. Nausea rose back in his throat, heat pressed against his neck. He had always hated feeling out of place, now he could nearly feel his hands shaking. 

“Does it feel surreal?”

“Does what feel surreal?” Chris asked, his jaw aching when he gritted his teeth against his own sharp tone.

“Being home, being with Stiles.”

“I slept on a concrete floor with the smell of my own shit in a bucket beside me, so this is taking some getting used to.”

He could see Peter’s expression change again. He heard his huff of a laugh again. When he shifted in his chair, Chris dug his fingers farther into the cushion beneath him.

“And I thought his sarcasm came from his parents.”

“They helped.”

“You sound like each other.”

“And it just tickles you,” Chris said flatly.

He could tell Peter was still smiling. The feeling of being stared at crawled on his skin.

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“You aren’t.”

“You hate not being able to see me.”

“No, I love it,” he said.

“You’re welcome here. Just as much as Claudia or John. You don’t have to be tense.”

“I’ll just shut that off.”

“You have PTSD, I’m sure it isn’t as easy as that.”

Chris made himself release the cushion, but couldn’t smooth his expression.

“It’s severe, isn’t it?” Peter asked. “Do you sleep?” he asked when Chris didn’t respond.

“I have medication.”

“You look exhausted.”

 “I didn’t take any last night -,” he said before he bit his tongue. Peter’s voice had softened. It wasn’t kind, but it sounded genuine and for a split moment he’d forgotten exactly who he was talking to.

“I can’t imagine what this must be like. It’s truly amazing what you’ve come through to be here.”

“It’s nothing, but luck.”

“Maybe,” Peter said.

“Not maybe. They could’ve killed me any time they wanted,” Chris said, pushing himself up. The dog moved from his feet before he took a step. He steeled himself for it, but his knee locked and he had to grip the couch arm. He felt a hand on his back and would’ve jerked if it wouldn’t have upset his balance. “I’m fine,” he said, pulling away when the dizziness faded.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m fine,” he said again, keeping his hand out and making it to the wall without his knee tripping him.

He could see the medic’s head in one of their hands, their fingers clenched in his hair. Vomit surged against his gag reflex. He could smell his own shit and see the tendons of Ryan’s throat hanging beneath the pale flaps of decapitated skin.

 He inhaled through his nose, closing his eyes then forcing them open when he could see the glaze over Ryan’s eyes like it was still in front of him. They had looked like road kill, with a thin glaze of blue green over deep brown rich brown.

“Chris,” Peter said his hand firm on his back. He pressed the back of his cool hand to his forehead and Chris pulled away, his head swimming. “Will you sit down?”

“I need the phone.”

“I have mine,” Peter said, pulling him. The ground shifted and he went with the pressure until he was sitting on the couch again. “Do I need to call Stiles?”

“John.”

Peter pressed the phone into his hand and Chris put it to his ear. When he put his head in his other hand, he could feel his fingers trembling. His nose was running, his mouth watering, as his heart beat too quickly.

“Hey, Peter,” John answered.

“Chris,” Chris said, pain building behind his forehead. “Are you busy?”

“He’s there?” John asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Can you pick me up?”

“Ten minutes,” John said.

When they said bye, Chris held the phone out and Peter took it without him looking up. He could still feel him hovering.

“I’m sorry for whatever I said that upset you.”

“I’m fine.”

He heard Peter sit. He could feel his body heat only a few feet away, sitting on the coffee table.

“It’s inexcusable,” Peter said.

“I’m fine,” he said again, clearing his throat of the thick bile trying to burn his nose.

He felt Peter stand, his hand gripping his shoulder before he heard him walking away. A cabinet in the kitchen opened and closed, then the fridge before Peter was back.

“Water,” he said, pressing the cold glass to the back of Chris’s hand.

Chris started to turn it down, but his throat was rough. He took it, nodding barely before drinking deeply.

“What hurts when you walk?” Peter asked.

“Knee,” Chris said, rubbing his fingers into his temples. He ignored the throb in his hip on the same side and weaker flares of pain in his other thigh when the piece of shrapnel had been buried so deeply. 

Peter was leaned toward him. There was more light on his face. He was older, younger than himself, but older than Stiles by quite a bit.

“I’m not giving up,” he said, but he heard how drained his own voice sounded. He couldn’t even bring up the energy to be ashamed. “Whatever this is, with you coming here like this, it doesn’t change anything. If he leaves me fine, I don’t blame him. But I won’t step down. Selfish, but it is what it is.”

“It is so selfish to go after what you want, what you’ve fought for,” Peter said. “I’m not attempting to take Stiles away. I’m not cruel and I’m not foolish. His world has been turned upside down, and still he’s happier than I’ve ever heard him. I wouldn’t step between that.”

“Then you want us to move,” Chris said. “That’s fine. I told him it was only a matter of time.”

“I don’t,” Peter said. “I only wanted to meet you. This all happened so suddenly and I had to for my own sanity.”

“Does it help?”

“You’re almost entirely what I expected,” Peter said, then he felt the feather-light brush of his fingertips against his knee. “It’s swollen. Can I get you anything to help with that?”

“It’s always swollen.”

“Have you taken any anti-inflammatories?”

“Yes,” he lied.

Peter hovered for a moment, before he stood. “I’ll take you to John’s if you’d like.”

“He’s on his way.”

“I should’ve handled this better,” Peter said, like he was speaking to himself, so Chris said nothing. At some point, the dog came back and laid against his leg. He let his fingers trail down to pet the soft thick fur. It turned and licked his hand before settling again. He focused on that and nothing else until he heard the low drone of someone in the driveway.

Without asking, Peter took his arm when he started to stand. Chris wanted to shake him off, but his head swam and his knee throbbed, deep and hot.

“I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable,” Peter said again, bracing his elbow as Chris walked down the foyer.

“Stop apologizing. It’s your house.”

“That doesn’t give me the right to be inhospitable,” Peter said.

Peter stopped him at the hall closet and Chris heard him shifting through clothes before a hanger clanked and he was pressing his coat into his hand.

“It’s cold outside.”

Chris shrugged it on, knowing it’d be easier than arguing.

“You can stay, I’ll leave,” Peter said.

“It’s fine.”

“This isn’t me kicking you out,” Peter said, holding his arm more firmly.

Chris pulled away. “You’ve made that clear,” he said, taking his hat from where he’d left it after his and Stiles’s walk when the most serious nudges of unease had stared, that there was someone with Stiles, and their life wasn’t going to be the same. Peter’s face was a dark mass in front of him. He turned and pulled the door open, closing it before Peter could try and help any more as he walked to the low noise of John’s truck idling in the driveway.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Chris followed John up the front steps of his house on the far edge of town. The stairs creaked in the same way he remembered, swaying slightly beneath his weight. He could smell the piss elm that he knew grew passed the barbed wire fence on one side of the yard, it was bitter and sweet on the cool air.

When he gritted his teeth, John grabbed a handful of his jacket on his side and helped him up the last few steps then let his hand fall, going to the screen door and pulling it open. There was a small patter of feet, then John’s small Australian Shepherd was at his knee, licking at his fingers with faint whimpers.

“When we pulled out your clothes, she wouldn’t leave them alone,” John said, his keys jingling before he heard the grate of the tumblers moving.

“She’s a good dog,” he said, clearing his throat when it felt like he would cough.

John pushed open the front door and Chris followed him in.

“Do you want a beer?” John asked.

Chris pushed the door closed. It smelled like how he remembered, slightly closed up, faintly musky, lived in. It hit him like a hammer.

“Light headed?” John asked.

Chris swallowed hard, opening his eyes and staring at the house he knew so well and couldn’t make out in the dim light. “Getting my bearings.”

John lingered at the mouth of the front hall before he went to the left, the kitchen. He heard the fridge open and closed his eyes, swallowing again as disorientation flooded, rising and falling like vertigo.

He pushed himself forward, making himself walk the same path he had for over twenty years, four, five times a year. Whenever he had a long weekend or leave and John was free and didn’t mind the company.

“Take a load off,” John said, sitting at the table.

Chris pulled out a chair and sat, stretching his bad leg out.

“Do they have you in therapy?”

“For what?” Chris asked, looking toward him.

“Bum leg.”

Chris shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll look for someone when I get settled.”

“I’m off Fridays and early on Wednesdays. If you need some help getting to your appointments, I’d be more than happy to give you a ride.”

“Thank you,” Chris said, the condensation of the beer John had handed to him was cool on his fingertips. He wiped them on his pants.

“So you met Peter,” he said. “He’s something.”

Chris nodded, taking the beer and trying to crack the top, feeling the metal ridges of the cap bite into his palm.

“Pop top,” John said, taking it back from him and slamming the cap against the table ledge. The cap clattered to the floor before he handed it back. The cold stung where his skin was frayed when Chris picked it up again.

“Did you get along with him?” Chris asked.

“Eventually. He’s a good enough man.”

John was tapping something on the table, a quiet tick, tick, in quick succession.

“He was Claudia’s friend at work. I think he started there the year before you went missing. He taught a few of Stiles’s undergrad classes. I thought Claudia was putting Peter to it when he and Stiles started to hang out, she’d tried to get him to a psychiatrist for over a year and Stiles kept telling her just shy of go fuck herself.”

“Why would spending time with him matter?” Chris asked.

“He’s a psychiatrist,” John said, glancing toward him. “Stiles didn’t say anything?”

Chris shook his head.

“Well, he’s supposed to be good. They’ve got him on leave from the university right now to write another book about something or another. He’s told me, but I never remember. Anyway, it was slow, but Stiles started to get better,” John said, looking toward Chris, his shoulders hunched forward with his arms on the table. “Relative word. He still had a lot of hard times, but when they first started to hang out, he was getting out of the house, he was doing things again. He stopped watching the decapitation videos the Al-qaeda put out so obsessively.”

“He watched those?” Chris asked, staring at the fridge, the dark places that were magnets. Probably still the same ones that were always there.

“He had to know if it was you, every time he found a new one. I should’ve made him stop, but…” he said gesturing weakly with his hand before letting it drop. “I couldn’t be a hypocrite. I would’ve done the same thing. Sometimes I did anyway,” John said.

Chris saw Ryan’s head when he closed his eyes before pressed his fingers into his lids, making the light spots erase his grey pallid skin while they yelled. When he thought of Stiles watching a feed, his stomach turned.

“Anyway,” John said, wiping his lower face, his hand rasping over his skin. “He got better, spending time with someone again, getting out. He had fairly drastic rises and fall, but Claudia and I had gotten used to that. At least there were more highs. Before he didn’t have any. He just had days where he functioned more fully than not. Then he actually had days where he’d laugh a few times, didn’t realize how much he hadn’t done that until he did.

John laughed weakly. “It was like having my heart shoved in a grinder. My poor kid. And I hadn’t even realized he wasn’t laughing, because me and Claudia were fucked over it too. We were fucked over him being so gutted, and we were, because,” his larger shoulders rolled and he glanced at Chris again. “You’re our family. You know that.”

“I know,” Chris said, reaching blindly for John’s arm and squeezing when he found it. John covered his hand with his and squeezed back before pulling away.

“I didn’t like him,” John said, before he laughed with a low humor again. “How you and Stiles got started, I never thought I’d accept it. I thought about where to hide your fucking body over it. But here it was and he was getting close to someone else and it made me sick.

“I remember the first time Peter kissed his cheek in front of me and I felt like my mouth had turned to sawdust. I looked at Claudia and she had the same shell shocked look on her face for an instant before she was forcing a smile in place. We pasted on happy faces until we got used to it.

“It was hard, but he gave me and Claudia back a version of our son,” John said, not looking up from his hands where he was fiddling with the cap of his bottle again. “There isn’t a way to show you how fucked up he was, and I don’t want you to understand. What I do want you to understand is, Peter’s good at what he does. I don’t think Stiles would have lived to twenty-five without him.”

“Yes he would’ve,” Chris said numbly.

“No,” John said back simply, but leaving no room for Chris to say anything else.

They sat quietly. The clock above the stove still ticked in a slow muffled way. He remembered sitting with John the second time he saw him after telling him about him and Stiles. The noise of that clock had been all there was for minutes at a time.

“God help him when Stiles realizes what’s gone on,” John finally said, breaking the silence before he took the empty bottle from in front of Chris. He listened to the fridge again before John cracked the top from two more bottles. “Let’s watch TV or something,” he said.

“Sounds good,” he said, grabbling John’s arm when he offered.

When they settled in the living room, Chris shifted in the couch that felt the same as the one he remembered. Digger laid beside him, her small soft head in his lap. John said something under his breath about her not being on the furniture, but let it go as he up it on something for sports. He couldn’t see, but he enjoyed the noise as he put his foot on the worn coffee table at the perfect height to make his knee quiet.

 

 

 

Stiles left the literature building as the sun was starting to set. Despite the cool air, crickets still squealed from down by the creek that ran near the front edge of campus. He pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the time again as he shifted his bag higher and walked more quickly.

His last class ended an hour ago. He had been ready to go five minutes after it let out before the head of the department stuck her head in the room. The talk didn’t surprise him. She gave the department’s congratulations and understanding speech, _let them know if they could do anything_.

It was meant well, but he took in what wasn’t said, his absence had been noticed. His stomach felt hollow as he crossed the lawn and went down the cracked cement steps to the employee parking lot. He was lost in thinking of what Chris was doing, if he had managed okay. Since he walked out of the door that morning, he’d been sick. He could picture Chris falling on the stairs too easily.  

There were few lights in the lot mostly empty faculty lot, but he recognized Peter leaning against his truck immediately. In the evening light, his smile seemed smoother and flutters still popped in Stiles’s chest before his head caught up.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Hello to you too,” Peter said, low and quiet.

His voice was a weakness. Stiles couldn’t help himself, even with the anxiety starting to beat in his chest he hugged Peter hard. Peter’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head before he turned and pressed his soft lips to his cheek and squeezed him softly.

“I missed you too,” Peter mumbled against his skin.

Stiles pushed his forehead into his shoulder before he stepped back. Peter kept a hand on his waist while he reached up with his other and brushed his cheek.

“You look tired.”

“Long day. What’re you doing here?” he asked again.

Peter let his hand fall from his face after one more brush against his cheek. “I needed to speak to you.”

“You want us out.”

“No,” Peter said. “I told you I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Then why fly out here?”

Peter stared at him, the corners of his mouth turned down. “I went by the house.”

“What?” Stiles asked, a chill going down his spine.

“I needed to speak to him.”

“You didn’t need to talk to him,” he said, hearing how low his own voice dropped, the warmth being ripped from it.  

“Stiles,” Peter said, quietly before he grabbed his wrist. Stiles felt what he was doing a moment before the air thinned and everything felt like it was wrapped in a thin cotton except for Peter and his firm hold on his wrist. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think I could help. Meeting him, you need someone’s help even if it isn’t mine.”

“We could’ve talked about this.”

“I couldn’t learn what I needed to by talking on the phone,” Peter said, staring at him. His dark blue eyes flicked over his face. Stiles could feel his pulse against his own skin. “They crushed his leg, did he tell you that?” he asked.

Stiles flinched, but Peter didn’t let him go.

“They stomped his knee, and broke it like kindling,” he said harshly. “I know that because when his gossamer of unfeeling falls, his thoughts are explosive and violent, then he forces them closed and its only building pressure. If you think he can be submerged into this life again without guidance, you’re being naive.”

“And you’re going to help?” Stiles asked, yanking away. “The guy whose been fucking me for three of those five years? What the fuck are you thinking?”

“That I can help him more than anyone else and you know it,” Peter said.

“This isn’t your deal. Why the fuck do you care?” he asked, his voice going higher.

“I can’t leave you with that kind of responsibility without at least offering my help.”

Stiles swallowed before he shifted his weight. He hated the look on Peter’s face. His eyes looked old, they shimmered before they were clear and the air was harder to breathe. It made it easier to think, forced him to concentrate.

“He’s incredibly sick, Stiles. He’s physical wounds are atrocious, but that isn’t what worries me. He needs you, but you have no hope of dealing with this on your own. And when you can’t and he only gets worse, what will you do?”

“He’s going to be okay. It’ll take time-.”

Peter shook his head, the lines around his eyes deepening. “This is so deep,” he said gently but with his voice firm beneath. “He’s a shell around something so small and volatile. When that cracks, I don’t know what will happen and I don’t want you to be alone with him when it does.”

“He’d never hurt me, Peter,” Stiles said, hearing the anger creep back into his voice.

“In his right mind? No, but a _right mind_ doesn’t exist for him right now.”

“He’s been fine.”

“He’s been in shock,” Peter said, staring at him until Stiles looked away, wiping at the bottom of his cold nose. “I was hardly in the room two minutes before he started to shake. I don’t even think he was aware of it.”

“He can’t see and he doesn’t know you. Do you have any idea how much that must have fucked with him? You’re a fucking psychiatrist, you know better!”

He heard how weak his voice sounded, but his heart was beating painfully. Then Peter’s hand was squeezing his, taking it away from pressing to his chest.

“I needed to speak to him when you weren’t there. This is why. He’s been home less than a week and you are pulling so much weight onto yourself. I know he’s fragile, but I wouldn’t handle him roughly.” Then he angled Stiles’s chin. The orange glow of the streetlight was spotted in his dark blue eyes. “I’d never harm someone you love,” he said softly. “If you can’t trust that, then I can’t help.”

Stiles didn’t realize he was squeezing Peter’s hand until Peter slid his other hand over his fingers. With the sun down, the chill in the air was biting into his ears and nose, making it sting and run. A pair of students were walking together, one of their laughs bounced off the brick walls of the library.

There wasn’t a way for this to work. His eyes stung and he hated it at a bone deep level.

“You can’t fix everything,” he said, still staring at the kids. They looked young, no older than he’d been when his life was turned to confetti.

“I can’t, but I can help.”

“Why?” he asked weakly.

Peter’s thumb rubbed up and down his hand. “If I can help you be happy, why wouldn’t I?”

“It doesn’t matter what you do, it’s not going to change anything between me and you. You know that, right? Please, don’t fuck with both of us like that.”

“I know,” Peter said before he kissed Stiles’s hand and let it fall.

His hand started to tingle against the breeze. He could smell Peter cologne, the barely there faintly sweet earthy smell of it that mixed with the scent of his skin. He wanted to bury his face against his jacket and take in that smell that was never too strong. It was perfect and smooth and he had missed it so much.

“Stiles,” he said softly.

“I love you,” Stiles said, his throat sounded dry. It felt dry. He couldn’t help his eyes dragging over his face. His chest rang hollowly. He jerked, walking in a staggered circle, dragging his hands down his face. A week ago he had sat in bed with Peter, looking through places they could go for winter break, even if they didn’t get married then, even when he knew Peter wanted it and he did too, but it felt wrong. But he knew Peter didn’t care. He could push Peter back on the date a thousand times, and he’d still be there. He would still love him and put his arm around him in bed, and kiss him while they scrolled through resorts that could be their honeymoon, but Stiles knew they never would be. It would just be another vacation, another escape, and Peter would still love him.

“What the fuck,” he asked too loudly, hearing it echo and feeling the sting as he gripped his hair too tightly.  

Peter turned him around and pulled him against him. Stiles fisted his fingers in his shirt, beneath his jacket, his face shoved against his neck. The dull vibration of Peter leaning back against the truck traveled through him and he only pushed harder against him.

“What the fuck’s wrong with me?” Stiles asked, his voice breaking as it felt like his throat was closing again. He was so tired of this. It hurt, every joint in his body. “This is all I’ve wanted and I haven’t stopped crying.”

“You can’t turn off love like that,” Peter said against his hair. “We weren’t perfect, but you loved me.”

Hearing it in the past tense was a knife buried in his belly. There was a split, running deeply through his core, but it was messy, and frayed. Some pulling towards Chris and some towards Peter with bloody tendon snapping areas between.

“I can’t be with you in the same house,” Stiles said, pulling back. “That’s asking for a shit show.”

“I won’t let it escalate,” Peter said, keeping an arm around him while he used his other and brushed his jaw with his knuckles. “And when you’re with him, your priorities will shift. It’ll be easier.”

Stiles swallowed hard, feeling the warm wall of Peter’s body against him and wanting to bury his face against his shoulder again.

“He needs someone there, in the house. If you don’t support that being me, then you need to hire a nurse until he’s completely functional. At this point, all it would take is a simple fall to injure him severely and then how long would it be until someone knew?”

“Don’t play on my thoughts like that,” Stiles said, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t have had to. It’s too clear what could happen,” Peter said gently. “I’ll help you if you’ll have it. I’m on leave. I planned to be at the house for the next few months, it’s a solution for all of us if we can adjust,” When Stiles opened his mouth to argue, Peter brushed his chin with his thumb. “I’m your friend more than anything else, Stiles. If that is all we’d ever been you wouldn’t think twice to allow me to do this.”

“But that’s not what we’ve been.”

“No, we’ve been family and he’s your family.”

“You’ve got some really fucked up ways of seeing things,” Stiles said quietly. His heart flipped when Peter smiled, the light shining on his teeth, his beautiful straight smile that dimpled the skin of his cheeks.

“We’re all colors,” Peter said softly.

Stiles stared at him, up at the warm softness of his expression. He hugged him hard again, closing his eyes against his shoulder.

“I love you,” he said again when he couldn’t say anything else.

“Say it again, then don’t say it anymore,” Peter said quietly against his hair.

Stiles sniffed and clenched his hands in Peter’s shirt, “I love you.”

Peter cupped the back of his head, smoothing his thumb against his hair. “I know. I love you too.”

Then he pulled away, gently making Stiles release him.

“Now let me help you,” Peter said.

Doubt swarmed his stomach. He could see Chris’s face the few days before when he leaned against the counter in the kitchen and looked so lost.

“If he agrees,” Stiles said softly and felt all at once like a traitor and like pounds had been lifted from his chest as Peter smiled gently and squeezed his shoulders and stepped away.


	8. Chapter 8

When he wakes up next to Stiles the first time, he could hear frogs in the shallows and the quiet buzz of mosquitoes outside of the tent. The sun wasn’t far above the horizon, hardly coloring the air at all.

He reached from beneath the sleeping bags and grabbed his phone. A missed call from John glowed on the screen and a missed text apologizing for being called in. He wrote back and tossed it on the tarp floor, making it crinkle.

Stiles made a noise and pulled the covers higher on his shoulders against the cold. Chris put his arm over his side, feeling his narrow ribcage expand under his forearm.

“You’re cold,” Stiles said, clearing his throat and burrowing farther under the blankets.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Stiles moved back and Chris held him closer. The smooth skin of his stomach was like a furnace against his palm as Chris kept time with his breathing until he wasn’t aware of them anymore.   

 

 

Sometimes when he woke with hard ground beneath him, and someone pressed to him, shivering, he could nearly smell the red muddy water of the Deep Fork, hear it running just out of his reach.

If he fell asleep soon enough, he could ignore the foreign call to prayer and the low noise of streets teeming alive at barely dawn.

 

           

It was raining when Chris walked up the front steps of Stiles’s house.

John’s headlights washed over the rock siding as he reversed, his tires crackling over the wet gravel. Chris kept his head down until he stepped under the overhang of the front porch, then he blew out the water gathered in the seam of his lip.

He wiped his hand down his face before he knocked on the door and pushed it open. The foyer was dark, so was the living room. Only light from the kitchen lit the stairs, spilling on the railing in a slant.  

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.”

Chris stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked toward Peter in the kitchen archway.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

His jacket was heavy, his hat soaked through to his hair. It was cold and heavy. All he wanted was to get them off, get warm, ignore this motherfucker existed, and hold Stiles.

“Can we talk?” Peter asked.

“What do you want?”  

“To talk,” Peter said. He came closer and put his hand on Chris’s back. “I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll get it over with.”

It didn’t seem worth it to argue, so he didn’t.

“Let me take your coat,” Peter said. Chris let him take it from his shoulders, helping him pull his arms free of the sleeves before he gave him his hat as well. “Are you hungry?”

“We ate,” he said. The taste of grease and cheese from the pizza was sticking to the roof of his mouth. He watched as Peter laid his jacket over one of the other chairs. “You’re a psychiatrist,” he said.

“I am,” Peter said. He went to the cabinet and took down two glasses.

“Do you practice?”

“I did until a few years ago. Then I turned to academia full time,” he said, going to sink. Chris heard the faucet run.

“Why?”

“I enjoy teaching,” Peter said then laughed slightly. “If someone had told me I’d be saying that ten years ago I would’ve laughed in their faces.”

“You didn’t plan to?”

“Hardly. I wanted to help people. I started with severe personality disorders, then moved between specialties for a handful of years before finding my niche in grief and trauma." 

Peter's chair’s legs scraped against the floor before he sat down and handed a glass across the table to Chris. Then stood again, getting something from the counter, taking Chris’s wrist and putting a pill in his hand.

“Your sleep pill. Stiles left it out,” Peter said.

Chris put it in his mouth and swallowed, holding the cold glass in his hands.

“Did Claudia push you to see Stiles?" 

Peter laughed slightly. “It was such a trial.”

“John seemed to think so.”

Peter trapped his fingers on the table top after a few seconds of silence. “Do you want to hear this?”

“Was he suicidal?”

“How would you have felt? If the positions were reversed and he had gone missing, no closure, no peace.”

“Was he better before I came back?”

“Better,” Peter said, saying the word like he’d never said it before in his life. Irritation prickled his skin. The fact that he couldn’t answer a motherfucking question straight. “Maybe you mean did he have more good days than bad? Then I can’t even answer that. He seemed to have more good hours than bad, but it fluctuated. The months around your birthday, his birthday, the anniversary of your relationship, then the anniversary of when you had gone missing, spread those out over the year and leave room for times when he saw someone at the store that looked like you, saw someone in a military uniform, happened to see something in the news, if someone shared your name.

“Then sometimes he brought it on himself. It was nothing for him to have a few good days to weeks even, then I’d find him with your videos, like the fact that he had allowed himself to be happy was unforgivable.”

He remembered the videos. The ones Stiles took obsessively before he deployed. There was one of him brushing his teeth, he remembered bumping Stiles out of the bathroom with his shoulder and closing the door when he needed to piss.

“You feeling guilty won’t fix anything. You didn’t choose to be held captive,” Peter said.

“Don’t pretend you know what I feel.”

“I don’t have to. You’re like him. Your thoughts are written all over your face.”

Chris stared at him across the table. Peter was just close enough and his eyebrows dark enough to see one raise.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve told him for years, martyrdom has never been in anyone’s best interest,” he said.

“Does he take it well when you talk like such a pretentious piece of shit?”

“Well enough that he wanted to marry me.”

“Then why didn’t he?” he could hear the barb in his own voice.

“He’s loyal to a fault.”

“This is loyalty. Funny." 

“The same thing I told him. If I was already fucking him, what was a ring?” Peter asked.

Chris could feel tingles in his fingertips like his nerves were firing wrong. He could feel his own heartbeat. He pushed back from the table and stood, staggering as his head swam, and his knee throbbed. Peter touched his back and Chris jerked.

“Fucking touch me again,” he said. When Peter took a step back, Chris moved into his space, until his shadow was blocking the light on Peter’s face. “How’d it feel to play second to a dead man? How do you think it’ll be now?”

Peter didn’t say anything, didn’t move back to create more space. He could still barely make out where his eyes were. Heat pushed into his face and flushed down his throat.

 “Bow out,” Chris said.

“So he can find you with your neck broken at the bottom of the stairs?”

Chris's brittle nails dug into the meat of his palm. He could feel one of them starting to splinter.

“He’s willing to give you anything, including throwing away the career he’s wanted for years, just to make you happy. Is that what you want? To take away the things that make him happy when there were other options?” Peter asked, his voice quiet.

Chris was about to ask why he didn’t just fucking speak up when he heard footsteps in the hall.

“Chris,” Stiles said, then his fingers curled around his upper arm, pulling him away. “Everything alright?”

Chris took Stiles’s hand from his arm and squeezed it.

“It’s fine. I was about to come up.”

Stiles was quiet for a moment, looking toward Peter before he pulled Chris. “Come on.”

Chris went with him when Stiles led him out of the room them up the stairs. He slid his thumb into the band of Stiles’s sleep pants as the light from the kitchen faded and he couldn’t make out the shape of him in the darkness of the upper hallway.

“Your hand’s cold,” Stiles said.

Chris slid his hand around Stiles beneath his shirt. Stiles leaned back against him for a half moment before he pulled them through their bedroom door.

“What time is it?” Chris asked after he felt his way around the bed and sat on his side.

“Almost midnight,” Stiles said, the blanket coming back as he crawled under.

He peeled his damp jeans from his cold legs, wincing when the denim caught on his knee. It made his joints pound. He bit back the noise, but couldn’t hold in the hitched breathing as the fabric gave little by little.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, his warm fingers touching his shoulders.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

After a few seconds, Stiles pulled him back. His lips brushed beneath his jaw as his fingertips tingled over his nerve-deadened skin. The mattress creaked and shifted as Stiles kissed down his stomach, then his mouth closed around his dick.

He cupped his inner thigh, rubbing up his chilled skin.

Finally, Stiles pulled away, letting his limp dick lay against his hip, cool and damp.

“Are you okay?” he whispered again.

“Just tired,” he said.

The sheets rustled until Stiles laid against him. He shifted and pulled Chris’s arm around him, his cheek on his chest.

“Just tell me if it isn’t okay,” Stiles said.

He heard him sniff and felt the first damp fall of his tears matting their skin together.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” he said. He pushed his lips to his hair to soften the words. He felt his fingers dig in to his skin and the shudder of his breathing before Stiles kissed his chest.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Stiles whispered.

“I just want to sleep.”

Stiles pressed his face into his chest, breathing shakily before he kissed his breastbone and rolled over, pulling Chris’s arm around his waist, leaving the other beneath his neck. He held him loosely before pulling him back to his body. Stiles laced their fingers together and kissed the back of his hand.

“I love you so much,” he said.

“Love you too,” he whispered, kissing the back of his neck, where the fine soft hairs turned dense.

 

 

 

Stiles was in the kitchen the next morning when he heard Peter on the stairs. His footsteps were so much faster than Chris's. He smiled at Stiles when he came in. Stiles looked away and poured his coffee.

“How did you sleep?”

“You were supposed to talk to him, not piss him off,” Stiles said, snapping on the lid on his travel mug before he looked at Peter. “He looked like he was going to kill you.”

 “He’ll have angry outbursts.”

“And you didn’t encourage that?” Stiles asked, his voice as tired as he felt.

“He gave worse than he got.”

Stiles felt his expression shift and watching Peter look away. At least he had the decency to look ashamed.

“You get that this isn’t a competition, right?” he asked. “You don’t get to provoke him. If I can’t trust you then you need to tell me, because I cannot keep him in a house that he can’t be comfortable in.”

Peter rubbed his finger over the seal of the sink where it met the granite. When he looked up the gray light through the foggy window hit his eyes.

“You’re right.”

“Of course he’s pissed, fuck,” Stiles said, leaning back against the counter and squeezing the bridge of his nose until sharp pains ran beneath his eyes. “He doesn’t deserve this,” he said, wrapping his arms around his ribs. “We can’t do this-.”

“Stiles, give me time,” Peter said, before he moved in front of him and tugged his arms from wrapping around himself. “I am sorry. I let him under my skin and I shouldn’t have. It won’t happen again.”

“God, just don’t fucking be mean to him,” he said. “Just be nice.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, sliding his arms around him.  

Stiles rested his forehead on his shoulder, sliding his hands up Peter’s bare back. His hair and skin smelled of tea tree and cedar. 

“He’s a good person. You’ll like him if you just try.” 

“I have no doubt,” Peter said, before he leaned back, holding him at arm’s length. “By the time you get home, we’ll be best friends.”

Stiles snorted, “Just don’t kill each other and I’ll be happy.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Peter said, touching his cheek. “You need to go.”

“Yes, Dad,” Stiles said, sipping his coffee before he hugged Peter around his neck one-armed. “Call me if this isn’t going to work.”

“We can be good for eight hours I’m sure,” he said.

“Maybe,” Stiles said, before he pulled away he kissed Peter. He yanked back like he’d been shocked. Peter just touched his cheek softly, a little smile on his face.

“Old habits,” he said.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, looking at him a moment longer. “I’ll see you after work.”

“Have a good day,” Peter said.

Stiles gave him a weak smile before he picked up his bag from one of the chairs and headed to the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for slight mention of pet death, anxiety attacks, and general PTSD. I probably won't warn for anxiety attacks or PTSD again. Be prepared for them to happen through out the story.

Three of four walls were made of glass.

In the early morning, the sun lit the panes in red and orange, shining through the dew and throwing molten shadows on Peter’s eyelids. When the droplets of condensation broke, they left streaks that showed the trees outside in hyper clarity. He could hear them as they slid together, pooling on the damp threads of grass at the foundation of the house.

He could imagine how they smelled with the plants inside, feet from him, lining the shelves. He could imagine how the ground sounded with how the roots inside drank through their tap water moistened soil. He kept his eyes closed and breathed through his nose the smell of dirt and leaves as his lungs expanded and he focused on the very tips of his fingers.

It felt like the smallest pins were tapping his arms and up to his shoulders. Each one had their own names. Shades of purple and green fell like rain against the red and orange of the sunrise glowing against his face.

The succulent on the top row, facing east, grew down with long alien-podded tendrils that brushed the floor. It popped with bright green as it threaded itself back into his consciousness. The ivies were like strings of black cats, small crackles of red, purple, and orange as all of their vines weaved through him. He could feel them, climbing, higher, and higher as they breached the trellises on the ceiling. The wisteria smoldered purple with them, creeping in like fog.

When Stiles was home, he loved the background of his pulse mixing with the nearly silent chorus, when he was still asleep, his mind like the low drone of power lines in the silence.

With Chris upstairs, he curbed his range.

After so long away, it was easier. The plants embedded their way in the edges of his mind and seeped into the stream of his energy, drawing what he gave and mending their sore edges.  

When he was still enough, he could hear them reaching more toward him than toward the sun. If he stayed long enough, no one would be able to tell where he began and they ended as he felt his anxieties and fear bleeding away.

 

 

 

Stiles’s office smelled of an egg mcmuffin that sat half-eaten on his desk. He balled it up in the wax paper wrapper and threw it into the bin beneath his desk. Grease stains were left on a student’s essay beneath. He rubbed his fingers on his dark pants before circling the small dark spots and writing _sorry breakfast_ in red ink before scratching out an extra comma he found.

His phone started to ring as he flipped to the next page of the essay.

Scott’s name wasn’t in his phone’s contacts. He didn’t need it. Scott had kept the same number from high school. It was almost as familiar as his name. He hooved above the button to reject before he swiped the green instead and pressed the phone to his ear.

 “Hello.”  

“Hey, what’s up?” Scott asked.

“Long time no talk,” Stiles said.

“Right? How’s it going?” Scott asked.

Stiles snorted, not anything that Scott would hear, staring at his dark computer screen before jiggling the mouse.

“Just at work.”

“Do I need to call you back?”

“No. I’m on break.”  

“Okay, cool,” Scott said.

He keyed in his ID and passwords, holding the phone between his shoulder and cheek.

“So, is it true?”

“Is what?” Stiles asked, listening to the fan in the old computer hum and waiting for the screen to load.  

“That Chris is back. I heard it from Isaac. He heard your mom talking about it.”

Stiles opened his internet browser and typed in usernames and passwords he hadn’t used in a few weeks.

“Yeah, he is.”

“Holy shit.”

“That’s what I said,” he said, clicking on his own profile and the picture of him and his dad. They were on the creek behind the house in March. He had texted Peter that night when he was laying in his sleeping bag, in his own tent, and his tears came hot from his ducts and nearly froze on his cheeks. Peter had come down from the house and crawled into the bag beside him after midnight and they had listened to the cicadas and crickets humming in the trees.

“How is he?”

Stiles sat up in his chair and took Chris’s picture from behind the computer monitor. A week ago he was talking to Chris for the first time, sitting right here. That felt like a lifetime ago. Taking this picture of Chris six years ago felt like it happened to someone else.  

“Not great, but alive, so I’m pretty ecstatic,” he said, wiping away the dust from the glass. Chris was smiling in the picture and wearing his standard issued sunglasses. It was in the summer. He was wearing a short sleeved-shirt that showed his faded USMC tattoo on his upper arm.

The gray-skinned man he left in bed this morning looked nothing like him.

“That’s insane, though,” Scott said.  

“Yeah.”

“Is he in the hospital or anything?”

“No. He’s at the house.”

“Oh,” Scott said. The pause dragged and Stiles waited for the questions. He wasn’t surprised when Scott only cleared his throat. “Mom wanted to cook something and have me bring it over. Would that be okay?”

 “She doesn’t have to do that.”

“She wants to.”

“Tell her thanks.”

“Sure.”

“Are you still working with Boyd and his dad?” Stiles asked, changing the subject as he set the picture down and scrolled through his social media. He thought of posting to keep anyone else from calling and asking him the same question Scott had, but he closed out of everything without doing it.  Chris did have family they still hadn't contacted. The last thing he needed was them finding out through Facebook.

“No, I don’t think I’m cut out for the construction thing.”

Stiles listened to him talk for a few minutes, listening just enough to know when to make an affirmation or hum. He didn’t realize Scott had said his name until he repeated it.

“What? Sorry.”

“Do you think it’s okay if I come by? I could maybe drop food off with you or…” Scott trailed. “I just don’t want to make it uncomfortable.”

“It’s whatever you want to do.”

“I just don’t want to you know… I know I’m not his favorite person.”

“That wasn’t his fault,” Stiles said, before he realized just how hard his voice was going to come out.

The other end of the line was quiet. He could hear Peter in his head, telling him he didn’t have to be the one to break the silence. It wasn’t his responsibility to make anyone feel more comfortable. Only when he knew Scott was just floundering for something to say did he give him an out.

“He’s only seen my parents and Peter. I’ll ask him if he’s up to seeing anyone else yet. Don’t take it personally. He’s kind of beyond fucked up right now.”

“Yeah, no, I’m sure. I just-,” Scott said cutting himself off. “Just send me a text or something.”

“Will do. Be sure to tell your mom thanks. It means a lot.”

“Yeah I will. Talk to you later,” Scott said.

“Sure thing,” Stiles said, hanging up his phone. He spun it for a moment, staring at his blank computer screen for a moment before starting to dial Peter’s number and seeing the time. Three minutes before his next class. Cussing under his breath, he shoved his phone into his pocket and grabbed his notes before hurrying out, not letting himself latch onto shit that happened years ago, even as he could feel it raising his blood pressure.  

 

 

 

It was passed noon when Peter heard movement on the stairs. He was taking inventory of the pantry and writing items on his grocery list. He had finished with most of the canned goods when he heard bare feet on the tile of the kitchen.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

Lines from the pillow and sheets were still creased into Chris’s cheek and neck. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat hard enough to make it creak. His hands hovered above his knee, stopping before touching. Instead he held his thigh just above the joint rubbing his hands down repeatedly.

“Can I get you anything?” Peter asked.

Chris shook his head.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m starting to think that’s all you can say,” Peter said, going to the refrigerator and flipping through the shelves. “Do you like eggs?”

When Chris didn’t answer, Peter looked back. He was staring at the floor, still rubbing his leg. The noise of his hands on the cotton of his pants was loud. The dark circles beneath his eyes were worse this morning than they had been last night. 

“Chris?”

He looked up, but it couldn’t have done him any good. If he was seeing more than shadows Peter would be shocked.

 “You don’t need to pretend. Ass kiss all you want when Stiles is here, but otherwise, there’s no need.”

“They’re eggs. Don’t flatter yourself,” Peter said, “You can’t medicate on an empty stomach.”  

“I’m fine.”

“Well I’m not going to give them to you without eating and it wouldn’t be very responsible to allow a blind man to sort through narcotics, now would it?”

When he looked back again, Chris was looking at the window, but it wasn’t with enough intensity to call it staring. It was vacant. Peter’s mind was pressing at him like a carpenter sounding wood to find rot, tapping there and there. Peter tried to ignore it as he dropped the eggs into the warm skillet.

“I’m going to use the toaster,” he said.

He didn’t wait for a reply before he pressed in the bread and took down the plates. While he cooked, Chris stayed almost perfectly still, only his blinking and the shallow movement of his chest breaking the facade until Peter put a plate in front of him.

“Do you want salt or pepper?”

Chris shook his head, sliding his fingers over the table until he found his fork. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Peter said, taking the skillet to the sink and washing clumps of egg down the drain before loading the dishwasher.

When he finished, Chris was still eating. His hands trembled as he raised the fork, pieces of egg falling to the table and plate. He still ate well for someone who probably hadn’t used silverware for as long as he’d been blind.

Peter’s mind kept pressing against him. He could almost smell him, gangrenous and fermenting. It made his stomach reject his coffee. He cleared his throat against the indigestion

He took down Chris’s medications to to distract his mind. There was a migraine medication only to be taken at the onset of one, sleeping pills, pain medication, a muscle relaxer, an anti-depressant, and an anti-anxiety.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“Not enough to take a pill.”

“Pain management is easier if you stop it before it begins instead of trying to break it once it starts,” Peter said.

“That’d be fine if they didn’t make me cloudy.”

“They shouldn’t make you foggy. However, since you have absolutely nothing you need to do today I don’t see why that matters,” Peter said. “Take half,” he said, snapping one of the tablets in half and dropping it into Chris’s hand.

“Thank you,” Chris said again.

“Has Stiles been giving you the anti-depressant and anti-anxiety?”

“I don’t know.”

Chris slid his thumb beneath the edge of the table runner. The nails of his index finger and thumb were yellowed and scattered with crack lines. It added to the traits of severe malnutrition that was only exacerbated by the clear edges of his cheekbones, the lack of muscle definition beneath pale sink, and the prominence of his joints.

“Do you have anxiety?”

Chris continued to drag his thumb over the fabric before he pulled his hand back and nodded.

“The valium helps.”

Peter shook out one of them into his palm and another of the pain medication before pulling out the chair beside Chris. He sat the two pills near him and held out his hand until taking Chris’s and pressing his fingers against the medication.

“The small circle is the valium,” he said, then he moved the valium away and slid the oxycodone closer. “Your pain medication is larger, oval. If you need to take less, break it in half. They shouldn’t be making you foggy. They should only be dulling the pain.”

Chris cupped his hand on the table and dragged both tablets back toward himself before he felt them again.

“Pain medication,” he said, sliding out the oxycodone. “Anxiety,” he pushing out the smaller circle.

“Yes,” Peter said.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Peter said. He watched Chris for a moment before pushing himself up. “I’m going to go shopping later. Is there anything you’d like?”

He started to shake his head before he stopped. “No rice.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “Is there anything you want?”

Then he did shake his head before he slid the valium into his hand and popped it in his mouth. He started to stand before his knee locked and he dropped back to the chair. Peter turned away and started to clean around the stove grates.

“I don’t want to cook anything that will make you sick. If you think of anything else tell me. I never cook middle eastern foods, but still,” Peter said, before he turned on the faucet and ran his rag under the water letting the grease and crumbs wash down the drain.

“I appreciate it,” he said.

Peter wiped down a few more things before laying the rag over the counter. There was a hot damp smell mixing with the scent of the eggs. The only image supplied were brown-skinned lemons laying in the sun. It was coming from Chris. His knee was pounding hard enough in the peripheral of Peter’s conscious to effect his vision, making the edges of it darken and lighten. 

“I’m going to go up to my office,” Peter said, getting a bottle of water and sitting it beside Chris. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Chris nodded again as Peter walked from the room. For the first time, he realized Deuc was laying on the opposite side of Chris’s chair. He expected him to follow, but the wolf only laid where he was, watching him until Peter passed out of sight.

 

 

 

Chris didn’t move until the pain medication started to cause the pins and needles in the soles of his feet. Then he pushed himself up, taking careful steps to the wall and using it for balance as he slowly made his way into the living room. He should have stayed upstairs. The thought of laying down again made his entire body feel weak, but the thought of going up the stairs again was enough to stop it. If he hadn’t been hungry and hurting, he wouldn’t have come down in the first place.

The TV was off when he came into the living room. The couch and tables were a darker color. His head was foggy, his arms and legs felt heavy as the medication settled in harder. He sat heavily on the couch and felt along the cushions until he found the remote.

When he saw movement he tensed before hearing Peter’s dog sniff his pants. He held out his hand and let it sniff before petting its cheek. Its fur was dense and coarse on its cheek that was larger than his palm.

“You’re big.”

The dog was staring at him. He didn’t have to see his eyes to tell. It was clear enough in the way it sat at his feet and kept the same position, like it telling him exactly how stupid that statement was.

“No shit, yeah,” he said, rubbing his thumb and finger up the edge of one large ear. “I’m sure Stiles likes you,” he said. Its fur felt so good under his heavy hands. It was so solid and warm. “I was going to get him a shepherd when I came home. He ran over his puppy a few weeks before I had to leave. There were ugly tears over that.”

The dog stared at him for a moment longer before it laid its head on his knee.

He remembered being in the house and hearing the thump of Stiles’s Jeep hitting something. His stomach didn’t have time to drop before he heard the yelping and Stiles yelling. She was the first dog he didn’t shoot himself. He didn’t even try to go toward his truck where he kept the pistol in the door. It would’ve been more humane, but with Stiles crying and trying it get her out from under the Jeep, he couldn’t. He couldn’t even consider it.

He could smell the dirt mixing with mud as he laid on the driveway and pulled her out, could feel her teeth where they sank into the meat of his hand as he got her and it her hurt her to be moved. When he got her out and held her, he didn’t know whose blood was on his shirt, but he could smell it.

Millions of dirty pennies, dirt, and unwashed skin in the sweltering heat.

“Chris?”

Chris jerked toward Peter, his heart pounding at the sound of his voice so suddenly. He hadn’t even heard him come down the stairs.

“Do you want help up the stairs?” Peter asked.

Chris started to say no, then shake his head when he stumbled over his words. His heart was beating so hard. There was a sharp pain in his back and wrapping around his shoulder like he had been running and his lungs weren’t getting enough oxygen.

“What’s the dog?” Chris asked, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing to keep from saying no and to say something. With his fingers still wound in the dog’s fur that’s all he could think to ask.

“Breed?” Peter asked, coming closer, and sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “He’s a first generation Eastern Timber wolf.”

“Full blood?”

“Yes. My brother-in-law works with a conservation. Deuc couldn’t be rehabilitated when he was young. He wanted to make friends with every one he met.”

“I guess that hasn’t changed,” Chris said, keeping his eyes closed and taking another deep breath through his nose. The catch in his back wasn’t as sharp. He breathed slower and deeper even when he felt the sharp stabbing pain.

“He decides who he likes,” Peter said, patting the wolf’s shoulders. “He thinks Claudia is the most fantastic thing to ever walk the earth. He took time to warm up to John.”

“John’s scared of dogs.”

“I don’t believe you,” Peter said with enough sarcasm that Chris smiled slightly.

Deuc’s fur was soft and warm, something close to focus on as the sharp pains in his back and side lessened with each slow deep breath he made himself take.

“You get through those well,” he said.

“Through what?”

“Your panic attacks,” Peter said, petting down Deuc’s neck again before leaning back. “The shortness of breath and sharp pains. I’ve only seen you have small ones, but still.”

“I don’t think that’s what they are.”

“Whatever you say,” Peter said, standing again. “Do you want to go upstairs? I’d be more comfortable than down here.”

Chris thought for a moment before he nodded and pushed himself up. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Peter hesitated for a moment before putting his arm around his back.

“You can lean on me if it’ll help.”

It hurt badly enough even through the medication that he put his arm around Peter’s shoulders. If he just thought of him as another man, it wasn’t bad. His grip around his side was firm and he didn’t falter when Chris put weight against him. It could’ve been anyone he’d ever served with. It was easy enough to put himself into that mindset as Peter helped him slowly up the stairs and in to his and Stiles’s room.

When he sat on the edge of the bed, Peter turned on the TV with the remote before sitting it beside him.

“The power button is on the upper left. If you need anything I’ll be across the hall.”

“Thanks,” Chris said. “Should I-. Never mind.”

“Go ahead,” Peter said, stopping in the doorway.

“I just woke up.”

“Do you want to do something else? I just thought you’d want to rest.”

“No. I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you are,” Peter said. “For now, the only thing you need to concentrate on is what you want, immediate needs. If you’re tired, sleep. You need it.”

Chris started to argue before he nodded.

Peter lingered before starting to pull the door close. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Chris nodded before he pulled himself back on the bed. He didn’t even bother turning on the TV. He laid on top of the blankets and felt the pressure of sleep pressing down on every inch of his arms and legs like weights.

He was nearly asleep when he felt the wolf, Deuc, jump onto the bed and settle near his legs, his body radiating heat. He was asleep before he could entirely register that he was there.

 

When Stiles pulled into the driveway just after six, he jogged up the steps with the smell of smoked meat clinging to his clothes, seeping through the paper sack in his arms. He was kicking off his shoes in the front entry when Peter came down the hall.

“Hey,” Stiles said.

“How was your day?” Peter asked, taking the bag of food from him and sitting it on the table.

“Slow, boring.”

“A few more months and you can teach Faulkner and Franklin.”

“Thank God,” Stiles said, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over one of the chairs. “Where’s Chris?”

 “He’s upstairs,” Peter said.

“Sleeping?”

Peter nodded, taking food from the paper sacks.

“That’s normal, right?” Stiles asked before he shook his head. “He just got here. It’s fine, right?”

Peter glanced up from serving out the sides on three plates. “He’s somewhere safe and comfortable. Even if he wasn’t in pain, I wouldn’t be concerned.”

Stiles nodded.

“I think he was waiting on you to come home too,” Peter said, “You should go wake him up.”

“How’d it go today?”

“Perfectly fine. Almost like we’re two adults who can be together without a referee.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles said,

Peter stuck out his tongue and Stiles laughed. Peter smiled and he felt the same stupid warmth. Other people didn’t get to see that. They didn’t get to see Peter act goofy and stupid. He felt his face falter before Peter’s smile went barely sad and he gave him a little push.

“Go get him before it gets cold.”

Stiles leaned forward and kissed his cheek before he pulled away and went up the stairs. He could still feel Peter’s smooth cheek against his lips when he was in the upper hall, pushing open the his and Chris’s bedroom door.

“Chris,” Stiles asked from the door. He waited until Chris’s eyes barely opened before he moved closer.

Chris held out his arm, his eyes still barely open before he let them close. “Come here.”

Stiles let Chris pull him onto the mattress, pressing against him, both of them only taking up a third of the bed. Chris pushed his face against his neck and Stiles heard him inhale and felt his chest expand.

“Fucking sucks being away from you,” Stiles said, leaning up to speak near his ear.

“Agreed,” Chris said, squeezing him closer like he was a stuffed animal. It was easy to go boneless and let him. “You smell so good.”

“Like old building and no shower.”

“One day no shower? That’s not no shower,” Chris said against his throat.

“Guess not,” Stiles said. “I brought home dinner.”

“What’s that?”

“BBQ.”

Chris made a low noise against him. Stiles laughed, dragging his fingernails up the center of his back.

“Will that get you out of bed?”

“Maybe.”

“Get out of bed,” Stiles said before biting his earlobe.

Chris’s breath puffed against his throat before he let him go. Stiles got up and gave Chris his hand, pulling him up. He sat on the edge for a moment, his eyes falling closed and holding the mattress. When he stood, he clenched his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned down and he held Stiles’s arm for balance.

“Okay?”

“Fine, just stiff,” Chris said.

Stiles pulled his arm around his waist and helped him down the hallway. He needed a shower. He didn’t stink, but he smelled lived in.

“You need a shower.”

He heard Chris sniff then a little laugh. “And I thought I smelled fine. I guess I can’t be trusted.”

Stiles snorted, barely shouldering Chris. “You aren’t funny.”

“Thought I was,” Chris said, then hissed as he took his first step down the stairs.

“Go slow,” Stiles said.

Chris held the banister with his other hand, but nodded. Stiles glanced up when he saw movement at the bottom of the stairs. Peter stood in the archway to the kitchen, watching Chris then looking at Stiles before raising his brow.

“We’re good,” Stiles said.

“We could convert a room down here,” Peter said.

“Maybe-.”

“I’m fine,” Chris said as they reached the bottom. “Dinner smells good.”

“Come have a seat,” Peter said, walking back into the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” Chris said.

Stiles sat beside Chris as Peter took water bottles and sat them on the table.

“How was work?” Chris asked.

“Alright. Slow. I hate Wednesdays.”

“To be fair, I’m sure your Comp students hate it just as much.”

“Well if the little bastards would just try a little that’d be great. How fucking hard is it to read a chapter about to write a paper, examples and all, then just write the goddamn paper? Five of them directly plagiarized. They didn’t even try to hide it.”

“They’re coming out of high school. Most of them don’t understand what actual effort is yet,” Peter said.

“Yeah I think I’m going to fail a few of them,” Stiles said, watching Chris pick up one of the ribs and dip it in a container of sauce. He sniffed it before sinking his teeth in then wincing again.

“Do they taste okay, Chris?” Stiles asked.

“They’re great.”

“Good,” Stiles said, but kept watching as he ate. Every few times, he flinched. When he looked up, Peter was watching him. He pulled back his lips and pointed at his white even teeth before mouthing.

“ _Tooth ache_.”

Stiles nodded and went back to eating his own food, trying not to watch Chris.

“I’m going to the store after I eat, do you want anything added to the list?” Peter asked.

“We’re out of cereal and milk.”

“Okay,” Peter said.

“And don’t get that nasty fiber crap.”

“God forbid you have regular bowel movements,” Peter said.

“It taste like asshole.”

Peter snorted, the corner of his mouth turning up. It was just enough to know that he was biting back a retort. Then all he could think about was being on his knees behind Peter in the shower, pulling his ass cheeks apart and tasting soap and water as he ate him out and the tiles dug into his knees.

He felt heat flush down his neck as he looked away and at Chris, who seemed to be ignoring them as he stripped meat from the short bones. Stiles reached under the table and squeezed his thigh.

“Want anything?” Stiles asked.

“Peter asked me earlier,” Chris said.

Stiles looked back at Peter, who only gave him a little smile before standing up and scraping his plate into the trash.

“Get chocolate chip ice cream too,” Stiles said.

“Will do,” Peter said, washing his hands then wiping his face. “I’m going to go ahead and go. Let me know if you two think of anything else.”

“Okay,” Stiles said.

Peter came over and Stiles barely stiffened before Peter touched his shoulder, squeezing. He surprised Stiles by going passed him and doing the same thing to Chris.

“Drive safe,” Stiles said.

“Of course,” Peter said.

After the front door closed, the only noise was them eating. Chris seemed fine with it. And all he wanted to do was keep asking if he was fine every time he flinched when he was eating.

“I don’t know what would be easier, if he was a piece of shit or this,” Chris said.

“So it went okay?”

Chris nodded. “I was an asshole last night and he wasn’t anything but civil today.”

“He’s a really-,” Stiles shrugged. “I’m glad it went well.”

When they finished, Stiles helped him back upstairs and got Chris in the shower, letting him sit on the ledge while he washed him down.

“Did you hate Composition?” Chris asked when Stiles was in the middle of dragging the washrag down his legs.

“Everyone hates Comp.”

“Then why do you teach it,” Chris asked, looking down at him. The water was clinging in his eyelashes. His face was still so pathetically handsome, even sunken in and pale. The shower helped though, brought color back into his cheeks.

“All the new English professors have to,” Stiles said. “Newer, I guess. You have to have a lot of seniority to get out of it.”

“Do you have any classes you do like?”

“I have an early American lit class that’s pretty alright, but next semester I’m teaching an intro to creative writing, because our other professor that normally teaches it is on maternity leave.”

“You liked that class, when you took it. I remember that at least.”

“Yeah, I did,” Stiles said, smiling up at Chris.

“Was Peter one of your professors?” Chris asked.

“I took a few of his classes.”

“He taught your Psychology class the spring before I was deployed,” Chris said.

Stiles opened his mouth then closed it before wringing out the rag, watching the soapy suds circle the drain.

“You talked about him a lot.”

“Nothing happened.”

Chris frowned at him before shaking his head. “I didn’t think it had. I just remembered it earlier today.”

“I just, I don’t want you to think it was anything like that. He’s a good teacher, and he’s handsome, but nothing like that.”

“Was he your teacher when it did start?”

Stiles shrugged again. “Weren’t you my dad’s best friend when this started?” he asked then laughed barely. “I’m not good at going for guys I’m allowed to be in to.”

Chris laughed, it was small, but it was a real laugh that showed his teeth. “Guess not.”

When they finished, Stiles helped him towel off before they got into bed. The hot water seemed to help. Chris stretched out and didn’t seem to hurt as much when he did it. Stiles laid down beside him, kissing between his shoulders, the red angry skin differently textured beneath his lips.

“So how much did you actually talk?” Stiles asked, “You and Peter.”

 “Some. He made me breakfast, gave me my medication, and helped me up the stairs.”   

“How was it?”

“Fine,” he said.  

“I’m sorry. I want to be here.”

“I don’t want you to quit your job,” Chris said, putting his arm around Stiles’s side and pulling until Stiles was half over him, brushing his lips against his short beard.  

“I don’t know if it’s worth it,” Stiles said.

“Stop,” Chris said softly.

“I want to take care of you,” Stiles said, his throat tightening, making it hard to speak.  

“He was good to me,” Chris said, sliding his hand up Stiles’s neck until he could squeeze his fingers in his hair.  

 “I’m glad.” Stiles sniffed before he pressed his face against Chris’s neck. “I missed you.”  

“I missed you too,” Chris said.  

He slid his hand up Stiles’s arm to around his shoulder. Stiles kissed his face again, dragging his lips again the dense stubble, back to his ear. Chris made a low noise in his throat, scooting closer until Stiles had his arms around his back.

“Fuck me,” Chris said.

Chris had never been shy about what he wanted. It hurt to forget it, it made his balls tingle to remember how his voice sounded when he said it. He angled up his jaw, kissing beneath his chin along the soft hollows of skin between muscle and bone.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“Just be careful of my knee.”

“It’d be easier if you laid on your stomach.”

Chris reached up and Stiles pressed into his palm, letting him drag his fingers down his cheek.

“If it doesn’t bother you, just like this,” Chris said.

Stiles sniffed against the sudden sharp burn in his nose and throat. Chris didn’t have to explain, because now his eyes were open, like they hadn’t been since the first time they fucked around. He could see where his iris should be, like it was still there, but blurred by layers and layers of fog.

“You’re just watching me,” Stiles said softly, even when it felt like the air was being pressed from his lungs at how Chris couldn’t focus. There were small scars in the soft tissue under his lower lashes, like burns.

There were scars in the soft tissue under his eyelashes. They radiated in small white lines like burns. Finally, Chris touched his face, his fingertips following under his eye socket and down the bridge of his nose.

“I hate that I can’t see you.”

His voice stayed even, but the corner of his mouth spasmed, the dimple in his chin followed. Stiles kissed him, cradling his face. He could feel him laying soft against the grove of his hip.  

Something like indigestion swelled in his chest. It ballooned to the point that it felt like it would be pressing his ribcage outward. Chris’s skin was warm. He was breathing, his heart was beating. Stiles could taste him, smell him. The rasp of his beard burned against his lips.

It felt so out of body in this bed, with his body, at this age.

He kissed him deeper, his heart hammering and his skin starting to prickle with sweat. Chris ran his hands over him, up his ribs, cupping him on either side and pulling him closer.

There was a wide triangle of burned skin that started at Chris’s collar bone and ended halfway up his neck. When he traced his tongue along the edge, where the tight burned skin met the healthy, Chris tilted his head back and groaned.

“How much of that can you feel?” Stiles asked, sliding his fingers over the more severely burned side of his chest and kissed the same place on his neck again.

“Pressure, my neck has more,” he said. He squeezed his eyes closed as Stiles kissed farther up his neck to the soft place just beneath his ear.

Stiles drew the skin in deeper, moving slowly along the thick muscle along his throat.  

When he pressed his first finger inside of him, Chris’s insides clenched, trying to push him out. Stiles kissed him through it, easing his fingers in deeper. He was so quiet, just the deep shuddered breathing as he found the small knot inside Chris and brushed his fingertips against it, making Chris give a choked off noise.

Chris only let him press his fingers in for a few minutes before he pulled up his arm and used his better leg to bring him closer.  

 “Are you okay?” he asked.

Chris nodded.

His cheeks were flushed, down his chest. Stiles kissed the hollow of his throat, sucking it softly before he bit along his collar bone.

“Go ahead,” Chris said.

“Are you sure?”

Chris nodded.

Stiles took out his fingers and poured lube on himself. He laid back between Chris’s legs, holding most of his weight. When he bent his leg, he looked down at the scars that covered his knee, deep and thin.

“Just bend the other one,” Chris said, wincing and stretching his bad leg back out.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Chris said, his brow still bent, and his eyes clenched.

Stiles shifted just enough for his dick to slide against the soft give of his body.

When he reached between them to line himself up, Chris made another noise against his shoulder before he kissed, up his shoulder then to his neck. Stiles pressed, holding himself before rocking until Chris’s body gave. His teeth were dull and hard in the curve of his shoulder. It felt like being sucker punched, remembering how his beard felt when he used his teeth. He jerked forward without meaning to and Chris clenched.

He expected hands grabbing the back of his thighs yanking him closer. He kept expecting legs wrapping around his back, angling up his body so he could fuck deeper.

Heat washed down his face and throat as he shoved the thoughts of Peter away.

He wrapped his arms around Chris’s back and held him closer. Chris’s arm was heavier around his back. He breathed harder.

It kicked Stiles in the chest when he realized it was emotion. He felt it too. The fullness in his chest. The pressure that was almost pain and he held him and felt him moving, felt him from the inside. He kissed open mouthed down his throat, tasting the salt rising on his skin and he listened to Chris breathing and the noise of their bodies.

“Stiles,” Chris said.

It sounded like he would say something else. He heard the stutter of his voice before Chris pushed his face into his shoulder and tightened his grip around his shoulders. Stiles turned in against him, holding the back of his neck as he fucked into him as deeply as the position allowed.

“I love you so much,” he said.

Chris nodded again, jerkily before his hard teeth hit his lip.

“Too much.”  

“Do you want me to stop?”

Chris shook his head. There were tears on his face, but his eyes were clenched tightly, His fingers dug into his shoulders harder as he spread his thighs as wide as he could.

“Don’t listen to me.”

“Just tell me you want to keep going.”

Chris pushed himself up on his arm until he could kiss him. Stiles kissed him back, until they were only breathing the same air. It felt like steel cables were wrapping around him. In the soft light of the lamp, with his eyes closed, it slammed him again. He kissed Chris’s cheek, running his hand up his chest, and up the side of his throat.

“Chris.”

He felt Chris’s face clench beneath his lips then his arms were around his back. Stiles kissed him, holding his face in his hands. Chris kissed him back quick and hard, like at any moment Stiles would pull away. When he felt the lube tacking, he pulled back only enough to get out of Chris before laying against him again.

“It feels so good to be touched,” Chris said, barely audible, his nose against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry,” he said.

“You can keep going.”

“This is fine,” Stiles said, kissing his forehead softly. Then a cold pit formed in his stomach before he pulled away slightly. “They didn’t,” he cleared his throat, and made his voice even. “Did they do anything sexual?”  

“No,” Chris said. “It’s just being touched. It’s just-,” he stopped as he squeezed Stiles closer. “It’s a lot.”

Stiles felt his damp breath shudder out before he sniffed and started to shake. Then Chris’s arms were wrapped around him. Stiles stopped trying to hold any of his weight and settled on Chris as hard as he seemed to want. He squeezed his fingers into Chris’s skin when he finally choked out a sob against his throat.

“You don’t know how much I wanted this.”

He probably didn’t. And the thought of his longing not comparing crushed him.

“I love you,” Stiles said against his face. “I love you so fucking much.”

Chris kissed his cheek, clenching the side of his neck. Stiles held him as closely as he could until both of their breathing came closer to normal. In the lamp light, Chris’s pale eyes still stared at him. His fingers brushed over his face again and again like he was trying to feel what he couldn’t see.

 

 

 

The ceiling in the master bathroom was made of cedar. Thin planks spiraled upward to a peak. Stiles leaned back into the curve of the tub, and stared up at it. It was passed midnight. Chris had been asleep for a few hours, but he still couldn’t.

“You should be asleep.”  

Peter stood in the doorway from the bedroom.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, looking back to the ceiling.

He heard Peter walk into the bathroom before he pulled himself onto the counter between the sinks.

“How was your day?”

“I’d rather hear about yours,” Stiles said, his skin squeaking against the porcelain as he pushed himself up until he could see Peter.

“It was fine, he was fine. Quiet.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Peter nodded. “It went better than last night.”

“That’s good.”

“He needs to be taking the Valium four times a day,” Peter said.

Stiles watched Peter for a moment, before he barely nodded, grabbing the rag from the ledge and rubbing it against the back of his neck.

“He’s really bad?”

“Of course, he is.”  

“So Scott coming over would be a bad idea?”

“McCall?”

Stiles stared at him until the corner of Peter’s mouth twitched up.

“He called today. He’s wanting to bring something over his mom is cooking.”

“Do you want him to?”

“They don’t get along.”

“I’m aware.”

Stiles wadded up the rag and threw it into the water. “He doesn’t like Chris. He made that pretty fucking clear the entire time we were together and now he’s calling?”

“He is your friend.”

“Is he?” Stiles asked, looking at Peter. “I haven’t heard from him since he dated that one chick, which no fucking surprise, they split. And now he thinks he can just come around and see Chris like he’s a fucking sideshow attraction?”

“I don’t think he ever took your separations as seriously as you did.”

“Because he doesn’t take anything seriously,” Stiles said. He could feel the air changing, the smell of cedar getting stronger and the tightness in his chest lessening. He took a deep breath and leaned his face into his hands, his elbows braced on his knees. “I hate that he does this shit, just pops up and acts like everything is fine.”

“He thinks everything is fine,” Peter said. “He isn’t malicious. He just doesn’t think before he acts.”

“Six months after he was trying to set me up, six-fucking-months.”

“You can tell him you don’t want him here,” Peter said. “You’ll hurt his feelings, but you don’t owe him anything. People grow apart.”

Stiles pressed his forehead to his knee caps, the steam from the water thick in his nose. His throat shuddered as he tried to steady the shaky feeling in his fingers.

“I don’t want anyone to even see him if they don’t love him, if they didn’t miss him,” Stiles said, making himself take another deep breath. “He needs a bubble.”

“Will you be guardian of the bubble?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, leaning his cheek against his arm so he could see Peter smirking at him. “Shut up,” he said.

“You may be being a bit over protective,” he said.

“Whoops.”

Peter snorted. “He’s dealt with worse than Scott McCall.”

“Yeah, so now he should only have to be around people who like him,” he said. He thought he was joking until his eyes started to burn.

“It’s bad enough he has to stay with me, I know,” Peter said.

“I know you aren’t mean to him,” he said, his throat tightening.

“You don’t have to justify it. Anyone would feel the same way, but I will be good to him and I know it’s hard to believe, but I am thankful he’s back.”

“Can you help him?” Stiles asked. He shook his head when Peter opened his mouth. “Not like a psychiatrist, like a can _you_ help him?”

“Stiles,” Peter said.

“Can you?” he asked.

“No,” Peter said, he shook his head when Stiles opened his mouth again. “Stiles, no.”  

“I just want-.”

“Which is why he’s being medicated,” Peter said. “When he’s this volatile a too firm touch could spring more memories than he can handle, at the very least. Not to mention, I need to have no negative feelings toward someone I’m touching with anything more than a passing thought.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said.

He did look sorry. His entire posture was stilted, his voice. Mostly it was his eyes though. They always showed things he didn’t want them to.

“You can’t help it,” Stiles said, but it still caught in his throat. The immediate relief when Peter would touch him and a lingering headache would disappear, colds, the flu, everything just melted. “I just wish he didn’t hurt.”

“I know,” Peter said. “You need to go lay down, though. I can at least help with that.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, wiping his face of the steam and sweat before pulling the drain and standing up. Peter handed him his towel and he forgot to even find it strange until Peter was gone from the room and he was drying himself. He still couldn’t make himself feel anything like guilt. Peter knew what he looked like naked, that ship had long since fucking sailed.

When he walked out of the bathroom, Peter was in their bed, his lap on, a book in his lap. He held out his hand and Stiles walked over, leaning down. Peter took his face in his warm dry palms before pressing a kiss to his temple and forehead. He said something too quiet under his breath, mostly just the feeling of air puffing against his skin before Stiles nearly sagged under the weight of drowsiness.

“Sleep well, love,” he said, dragging his nose against Stiles’s cheek.

“You too,” Stiles said, kissing him softly on the lips, not because he forgot, but because his fucking chest hurt and he was tired and Peter was in the soft dark t-shirt he slept in and his terrible striped sleep pants in their bed, reading a book Stiles wanted to ask him about. “I love you,” he whispered.

“No more of that,” Peter said softly, dragging his thumbs back over his cheeks. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Stiles looked at him in the warm yellow light, the pin point of the lamp on his dark blue eyes. When he felt his own start to burn, Peter barely smiled.

“It will get easier,” he whispered.

“I fucking hope so.”

“Good night,” Peter said.

“Night,” Stiles said, looking at him a moment longer before pulling away. He didn’t look back as he pulled the door closed and went the short dark distance to Chris so deeply asleep after so long. He couldn’t tell if the pain in his chest was guilt or longing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to preface this chapter with, I know what Peter does in this chapter is not what a psychiatrist is supposed to do and is a conflict of interest. However, he is Peter and even though he is *good* in his 'verse, he still as Peter-like qualities.

When Stiles woke up, he rolled over, reaching for Chris and only feeling sheets. He looked up to see the other side empty and the bedroom door ajar. He pushed back the blankets and went toward the hall before pausing at the faint clicking of Deuc’s toenails on the tile of the bathroom.

In the dark, Stiles could see just enough to make out Deuc’s eye, to see them watching him, then him turn and go back into the bathroom. He heard him lay down on the tile, the sound of his large body folding in on itself and his slight huff, when he shouldn’t even be in their room. Stiles didn’t even know when or how he had come in. He always slept at the foot of his and Peter’s bed, always.

“Chris?” Stiles asked as he walked to the open bathroom door.

Deuc’s eyes reflected back at him where he laid near the shower, his head on his paws. His body looked morphed, larger in places than it should be, like his shoulder was dislocated or swollen. Stiles went closer, ready to call for Peter before he realized what his still sleep-drunk mind wasn’t putting together.

Chris was laying behind Deuc, his back to the wolf’s side, facing away from the door, his body almost completely hidden by Deuc’s mass.

“Chris,” Stiles said again, crouching on Deuc’s other side. “Chris?”

Before he thought he might have to touch him and be prepared to duck, Chris moved, looking over his shoulder.

“What’re you doing in here?” Stiles asked quietly.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah,” he said, giving Deuc a little push to get him to move so he could touch Chris. “Come on, old man. You can’t be sleeping on the floor.”

His eyes were burning, but his voice came out even enough as he took Chris’s hand then pulled him to his feet. He was so light for a man his size. Stiles was able to get him on his feet, pulling him against his chest without even straining. Chris groaned, his bad knee unhinging. Stiles held him tighter.

“You can’t be sleeping on the floor,” Stiles said against his cheek.

“Okay,” Chris said, pressing his face against Stiles’s neck. Stiles smelled the slight staleness of his mouth. “I miss you, kid.”

“I missed you too,” Stiles said, kissing his dense stubble. “Come get in bed.”

Chris followed, leaning heavily on him as Stiles brought him back into the bedroom and helped him get settled on his side of the bed, pulling the blankets around him. Then he got in behind him with an arm around his chest.

He felt Chris exhale.

“Why were you on the floor?” Stiles asked.

“I sleep there.”

“No. You sleep here,” Stiles said, holding him closer, but keeping his voice quiet, because Chris sounded like he was on the verge of falling asleep again. He kissed along his shoulders and felt the vibration of Chris making a small noise before his hand was closing around Stiles’s on his chest. His thumb rubbed over the back of his hand slowly until his breathing was slow and even.

He didn’t know if he’d sleep anymore. If he could, knowing Chris might get out of bed again. He didn’t know if he should go get Peter then he felt the movement of Deuc jumping on the bed. In his and Peter’s room, Deuc never really wanted on the bed. He would if it was only one of them taking a nap, but normally he liked the floor. Now Stiles watched him lay at the foot of the mattress, his warm stomach against his ankles with his chest covering Chris’s ankles and thighs. Stiles could feel Peter’s familiar’s heartbeat through the blankets. It was the last thing he remembered before he fell back to sleep.

 

 

When Stiles came down the stairs, still buttoning his shirt, the scent of coffee was already strong. Peter was in the kitchen, flipping through mail from the day before, sorting it into piles before he looked at Stiles. “You look like you need coffee.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, going to take down his mug before Peter handed it to him from the counter already filled and made the way he took it. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Peter said. “I suppose the VA got Chris’s address here?” he asked, holding up some envelopes. “Do you want to take them to work or?”

Stiles took the fattest one and tore it open, barely recognizing Chris’s social security number before he shook his head and tossed them down. It was too early to process words.

“I woke up and he was asleep on the floor last night,” Stiles said.

The corner of Peter’s mouth turned down in the dim blue light coming through their kitchen window.

“Where?”

“The bathroom.”

“Did he know who you were?”

“He knew my name. I don’t know if he realized what was going on. He was out of it.”

“What about this morning?”

“I didn’t wake him up,” Stiles said. He shoved fingers through his hair. “On the fucking floor? Jesus fucking Christ really?” he asked, his eyes burning again as he looking at Peter. “Your goddamn dog laid over his legs to keep him in bed. He’s still up there.”

 “The adjustment isn’t going to be easy. He’s going to say strange things, do weird things. It’s normal.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Stiles said, his voice sounding thick in his own ears.

“I know it doesn’t,” Peter said. “But I’ll be here. If he stays in his state today then I’ll try to help him out of it. If he wakes up fine, then we’ll move on and be aware.” 

“Deuc was on the floor with him,” Stiles said, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Did you make him do that?”

“No. I just let him in the bedroom when he was laying in front of the door.”

“I’m glad he likes him,” Stiles said, sniffing hard before, moving around Peter and grabbing a frozen breakfast he could heat up at work from the freezer. “I need to go. Let me know if he’s doing better later, please.”

“Of course,” Peter said.

When he paused in front of him, facing away, toward the kitchen door. Peter squeezed his shoulder. He didn’t want to go. It felt like lead was in his shoes, filling his body from his shoulders down.

“I’ll take care of him. I promise,” Peter said.

“I know, but I should still be here,” Stiles said, his eyes watering again. He could hear how Chris said his name the night before, like he didn’t believe he was actually there, but like he was happy anyway.  

“I wish you could be.”

Stiles took another deep breath. He could smell something like mint and it felt like his lungs expanded easier. Whatever Peter did, whatever he always did, helped. It made him feel like he could move. He leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Just be good to him,” he said again.

He always expected Peter to laugh him off, but he only held the back of his head, his fingers in his hair that needed to be cut and looked him in the eyes only a few inches apart.

“I promise,” he said, sliding his fingers a few times through his hair before he let his hand drop to his shoulder. “You’ll be late if you don’t go.”

“Okay,” he said, lingering, before stepping away. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Be careful.”

“I will be,” he said as he walked from the kitchen and to the front door.

The cold morning air still tasted slightly like mint and he still felt like he could move as he climbed in to Chris’s truck.

 

 

 

Between his classes, Stiles sat in his office, listening to his office mate typing away, occasionally cussing under his breath and jamming on the backspace button or enter. If he was actually working, he’d have to put in headphones to focus over the noises the guy made, but otherwise he wasn’t bad. At least he just talked to himself and didn’t really expect Stiles to respond.

He opened his personal email and deleted a few junk mails before he clicked on one from the realty site he’d signed up for. He clicked through the pictures of the two houses they’d sent him automatically in their price range. One was brand new, generic, in an addition just outside of town. He drove by it every time he drove out to the house. It looked soulless. The innards weren’t any better, beige carpet, tan walls, white new cheap baseboards.

The other was an older home on a few acres on the other side of town from Peter’s house. It wasn’t on the river, but he was daydreaming if he thought they were going to get on the river. It was okay though, screened in back porch, fenced in backyard that backed up to thick green woods. At the thought of having a screened in porch, a little blip built in Stiles’s chest.

He scanned the other postings on the side, modifying his search a few times before he froze. He clicked the link for the foreclosure as his mouth dried and he flipped through the pictures. It had been listed for three months. There were holes in the walls still painted the pale gray he and Chris had painted them seven years ago. The stainless fridge they picked out was dented. The original hardwoods were dusty and needed to be refinished. Some of the cabinets in the bathroom were missing doors. The bedroom that had been theirs was missing the closet door. There was a hole in the drywall by the window that overlooked the small creek at the back of the property. The windows had been shit. He could almost feel the cold the thin panes had allowed to leach into the interior.

He typed a quick message in the box below asking the realtor it was listed with if it was still available before he closed it out and looked at other options in their price range. He hardly saw the images, they slid passed his eyes without making an impact before he gathered his things for next class and left the office.

 

 

 

 

 

After his morning mediation, Peter gave Chris three hours of sleep before he left his office and went down the hall. He knocked lightly on the slightly open door and came in when there wasn’t a response. He expected him to be in the bed, but Chris was sitting on the floor, one knee drawn toward his body and the other stretched in front of him. His head was dropped forward, his forehead braced on his hand, anchored on his knee. Deuc was laying on the floor at the end of the bed, he didn’t even look back at Peter, he just continued to stare at Chris.

“Chris?” he asked, quietly.

The dull gray of Chris’s moody coloring palpated, but it was only a ripple and he didn’t move.

Peter went closer, his feet quiet on the carpet, but trying to sound as obvious as possible, his jeans rubbing where he walked, the pad of his feet on the thick threading. It wasn’t much, but it should have been plenty for someone conscious. Then he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Chris,” he said again, watching the ripple in Chris’s coloring. “are you okay?”

He mumbled something then looked up, toward the right of Peter and cleared his throat, speaking again. It was foreign with a lithe he didn’t recognize.

“I don’t understand.”

Then the gray seemed to flutter, a stagger as some coloring of thought shifted against the paleness of the wall color. Chris mumbled something again, dropping his head back down against his hand like he was dizzy or confused.

“Repeat that.”

Chris said the words again and Peter leaned toward him to hear. For a moment, he still didn’t understand until they slotted together and a cold pit settled in his stomach. _Chris Argent. Second Lieutenant_ with his serial number. It was what he was allowed to say under the Geneva Convention. The only information he was required to give as a prisoner of war.

“Do you know where you are?” Peter asked.

Chris tilted his head back. Peter winced when it thunked against the window sill. His eyes were never focused, but they were normally alert. Now they looked foggy and barely conscious. Still his coloring fluttered at the sound of his voice.

“You’re home with Stiles. In the United States. You have been for two weeks.”

“Stiles,” Chris repeated. It was hard to tell, but his eyes seemed wet before he closed them.

“Yes.”

The corner of Chris’s mouth barely turned up, but the fogginess remained.

“How do you feel?” Peter asked.

Chris shook his head. The coloring fluttered harder, irritation, confusion, fear, breaking through the film of unfeeling.

“Are you in pain?” Peter asked, watching the gray somewhat move, like it was coming to a rolling boil with hues shimmering through beneath. “I can help if you’re in pain.”

Then some of the awareness came back to his eyes before his brow wrinkled.

“American?”

“Yes.”

The bubbling rolled thicker as Chris rubbed his forehead. “No. You aren’t. I dreamed Stiles was here. I dreamed he took me off the floor and put me in a bed.”

“Where were you on the floor?”

“Just on the floor, here,” he said, laying his hand on the carpet then the edges of his mouth turned down as he felt the soft thick weave of the carpet between his fingers.

“You’re at Stiles’s home. You’ve been here for two weeks,” Peter repeated.

Then some more recognition seemed to gain leverage. More color, more awareness and feeling came through.

“If this is his, where is he?” Chris asked, very carefully, very slowly. The faintest green of hope mixed with fear.

“He’s at work. He’ll be home in a few hours. I’m here to help when he can’t.”

“John?” Chris asked, frowning. “You don’t sound like him.”

“No. My name is Peter.”

He waited for the flare of recognition, but it didn’t come. Then Deuc stood where he had laid at the foot of the bed and sniffed Chris’s face. Peter watched Chris lifted his hand and lay it on the wolf’s neck, slow, careful strokes Deuc stood through before sitting.

“Do you know his name?” Peter asked.

“Deuc.”

At the sound of his name, Deuc licked Chris’s face.

“Do you know who I am?”

Chris nodded, staring into the dark face of the wolf.

“Stiles’s fiancé.”

“Ex, but yes,” Peter said. He waited a few moments, watching the gray slowly dissipate further. “Has this happened before?”

Chris nodded. “I don’t know why. Sometimes if I can’t just sit and shut off I feel like I’ll die.”

“You did this while you were captive, not moving, not speaking?”

Chris nodded.

“Do you need more time alone?”

“My knee hurts,” he said, his eyes glassing, but not spilling. “I’m hungry.”

“I can help you into bed, go down and get you food, and your medication?”

“I don’t want to lay in bed.”

Peter rolled his lips between his teeth before he stood. “Come into the office then. I have a TV in there and a couch.”

“Aren’t you working?”

“I can work in there if I need to. You won’t bother me.”

Chris sat still for a long moment before he started to move. Peter watched as Deuc stood, letting Chris brace his hand on his thick shoulders with one on the wall. Peter let him get mostly to his feet before he staggered and Peter put his hands on his sides to steady him, pulling him the rest of the way up.

Through the physical contact, Peter felt Chris’s vision pulse, his own went foggy for a moment before it cleared. Chris didn’t try to push him away when he put his arm around him pulling the bulk of his weight against his side so he could all but let his right knee stay immobile.

When they crossed the hall, Peter helped Chris onto the couch, letting him lie down then lifting his leg and gently pushing a pillow beneath his visibly swollen and red knee.

“Do you think a heating pad would help?” Peter asked.

“Probably,” Chris said, wincing as he moved. “Is it raining?”

“Yes,” Peter said, looking for the TV remote on his cluttered desk before he flipped it on and put it on something mundane. “Think of something you’d like to watch. I’m going to bring up lunch and some of your pills.”

Chris nodded before looking toward Peter and away. “I appreciate what you’re doing even when you have no reason to do it.”

“There shouldn’t have to be a reason to not be cruel,” Peter said as he left the room with the prerecorded laughter of a staged audience playing on a sitcom.

Deuc passed him going down the stairs, trotting through to the kitchen and waiting at the back door.

“Hunt or get frozen chicken,” Peter said.

When Duec only looked up at him, Peter scratched him behind his ear.

“I have left over ribs if you don’t catch anything,” he said, then Deuc trotted out of the glass door and down the stairs into the light fall of rain. Peter watched him before he disappeared into the woods.

Then he put Chris’s leftovers in the microwave while he took down his medications and shorted the ones he needed. He looked through them, considering their class and dose. None of them were proven to drastically improve PTSD. The antidepressant might, they could improve symptoms, but maybe not as severe as what he had walked in on, a full flashback of a slow time in captivity or possibly simple regression to how he had survived for so long.

Finally, he picked up his phone and found the number for the local VA hospital. After multiple bored sounding dispatchers and many different numbers, he finally reached the hospital and doctor he needed.

“Dr. Cox,” she answered.

“Hello,” he said faintly surprised that he wasn’t sent to voicemail. “This is Dr. Peter Hale. I’m calling for Christopher Argent’s medical and psychiatric evaluation.” Then he read her his birthdate and social security number from paperwork Stiles had left on the counter.

“Are you going to be his treating physician?”

“His psychiatrist, at least for now,” Peter said.

He heard the doctor shuffling through papers before she made a low noise.

“Oh. The POW.”

“Yes.”

“I remember him. He was unresponsive verbally for nearly two weeks. The only things we could get him to say his name, rank, and serial number.”

“Mhm. We had an episode of that this morning,” Peter said. “Why was he released?”

“He had two weeks of recovery without relapse. We thought he would recover best with his loved ones than being in a hospital, alone.”

“I see.”

“How is he?” the doctor asked, surprising Peter slightly. He had dealt with VA overflow cases before and rarely did they care to ask.

“As well as I’d expect. He sleeps more than average. He’s startled and triggered easily. He’s only been with close family and that’s going very well. He recognizes and responds to them positively.”

“And Stiles? His godson?”

“No. Stiles is his partner. Of course, Godson looked better on paperwork before Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was repealed. He’s with him now. Stiles helps his mental state tremendously.”  

“I’m so glad to hear that,” she said, “Please, keep my number. I’m sure you’re perfectly qualified, but I’ve dealt with prisoners of war in the past, not held as long as he was, but still. The amount of PTSD they suffer can be much more acute than the average front line personnel. We’ll try to accommodate his needs as well as we can.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Then he gave her his updated fax and ended the call. As he took Chris’s food and medication up the stairs, he could hear the whirl of his fax machine in the office.

“Did you think of anything to watch?” Peter asked as he came back into the office.

“Is Top Gear still on or is there a way to-.”

“Of course,” Peter said, giving Chris his pills before searching a streaming service and pulling up the collection of the show Stiles watched often. “Any particular one?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Chris said.

Peter pressed on the last episode Stiles had watched and waited for it to load at the beginning again. When it started, Chris smiled, a real smile, showing his teeth. One of his teeth toward the front was badly broken.

“I missed their intro music.”

Peter smiled slightly, giving Chris the remote, showing him where the volume was and going to his desk, taking the still warm pages from his printer.  The top page was from the veteran’s hospital in Virginia where they had had him. He flipped through page after page of recommended physical treatment. It was recommended he have his right knee replaced, his left knee reconstructed, and multiple bones reset in his arms and fingers.

He looked at the poor duplications of his x-rays. His right arm had been broken twice. His left once. Peter didn’t realize he was clenching his jaw until he came to the x-ray of Chris’s right knee. There was little of it left intact. It was nearly all bone splinters. If he hadn’t seen him walk, he wouldn’t believe that he could.

In front of him, Chris laughed slightly at something one of the hosts said on screen. Peter let it distract him enough from the things he couldn’t give a diagnosis on to his psychiatric evaluation. His medications were listed and underneath in smaller lettering what they were for. Peter read through them before reading through what the psychiatrist there had recommended. Medication and cognitive therapy.

Peter opened his notebook and started with his go to boards and sites he and his colleagues used for more complicated cases. First, he looked into the flashbacks and how to deal with them only to find his memory had served him well enough, keep his voice even, use keywords, names.

“We don’t have to keep this one if want to watch something else,” Chris said.

Peter looked up, hardly hearing him over his own train of thought before he shook his head. “No, you’re fine. I’m not even paying attention.”

“Okay. Tell me if you change your mind.”

“Don’t worry. Stiles watches TV in here all the time. You’re quiet compared to him.”

“A lot of people are quiet compared to him,” Chris said.

“Very true,” Peter said with a small smile, then it faltered when he saw the pale green color that pulsed off Chris when he said that. He knew that color. He saw it on Stiles now and then a small pop of amusement and affection. It was so strange to see it on someone else, he watched until it faded before he looked back at his computer screen.

He had gone back to taking notes when Chris shifted on the couch and started to sit up.

“The bedroom, right across the hall, right?” Chris asked.

“Mhm. Do you want to lay down?”

“No I need to use the bathroom.”

“There’s an easier one to get to, go straight down the hall on your right. Second door. Less to trip over.”

“Thanks,” Chris said.

Peter watched him get up while keeping his head down. Chris faltered to the left hard when he stood before bracing with his left hand on the couch to counter. Peter watched his gait until he was gone from the room before he began to flip through Chris’s packet again, his mind spinning.

 

 

That night after dinner, Stiles took Chris upstairs and helped him shower before they sat in bed. The TV played in the background as Stiles sat cross-legged, facing Chris who was pressing a heating pad Peter gave him after dinner against his bad knee.

“So how was it today?” Stiles asked.

“Am I going to have to give you a status report every night?” Chris asked with a small smile that faltered when he shifted his leg.

“Yeah for a while, smartass,” Stiles said.

“It was fine. Peter was nannied me, gave me my meds, fed me, let me watch TV in his office,” Chris said.

“Good.”

Chris shrugged. “He’s fine. I don’t see that changing. I can normally tell when someone is faking this kind of thing and I don’t think he is. You found a weirdly genuine guy.”

“Yeah he is,” Stiles said, pulling his knee up and crossing his arms over it and resting his chin on his forearms.  “Our old house is for sale. I found it today on a realty site.”  

“Is it?” Chris asked. He sounded surprised, maybe even excited, but it was drowned under him fiddling with the buttons on the heating pad until the screen turned orange and he hit the up button a few times before closing his eyes.

“Yeah. I emailed the realtor about it.”

“Did you see pictures?”

Stiles nodded, bringing his fingers to his mouth and starting to chew at the skin. “Drove by,” he said around his nails. “It’s in really rough shape.”

“Is it worth looking at?” Chris asked.

“I thought that would be up to you,” Stiles said.

Chris ran his hands down his thigh over and over like he was urging blood flow downward or trying to tourniquet pain. Stiles scooted closer, putting his leg over Chris’s and rubbing into the muscles of his thigh the same way until Chris leaned back against the headboard.

“This rain is a bitch,” he said with his eyes closed.

“Do you need a pain pill?”

“Peter gave me one when I was downstairs.”

 “We need to get you to a doctor,” Stiles said.

“With the VA? Good luck.”

“If we got married I can put you on my insurance. I think we could go through them to get it done.”

“I don’t know if they’d allow that. It’s like a worker’s comp claim. I was hurt on the job. The VA should be covering it,” Chris said.

“Then we need to get you in.”

Chris shook his head. “It’ll have to be inpatient I’m sure. I can’t be in a hospital again. Not this soon.”

“But you need to be able to walk.”

“If they put me back in the hospital they’ll have to sedate me to get me in the bed,” he said.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Stiles said, even as his chest clenched at the thought of Chris being that phobic of being confined again.

“I’ll just give it a few months. Let me get settled. I can deal with pain like this.”

“Barely.”

“I dealt with it in a lot worse conditions for a long time,” he said.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“This is at least comfortable,” Chris said, looking at Stiles as much as he could. “I’m comfortable here. I can do what I want.”

“I get it.”

“Aside from walking up the goddamn stairs. The dog helps though.”

“Yeah?”

Chris nodded. “I know he’s not trained for it, but he stopped me a few times from running into things. He’s smart.”

“Yeah he is,” Stiles said.

Deuc was laying in the middle of the hallway. Stiles could see him from where he sat, halfway between Peter’s office and their bedroom. His eyes were closed, but his ears were up. They twitched as he and Chris spoke.

“I think we’ll leave the door open when we go to sleep if that’s okay?” Stiles asked.

“That’s fine,” Chris said then his eyes fluttered closed. “Those pills are kicking in.”

“How many did he give you?”

“Two. And my sleeping pill.”

“So lights out soon?”

“Probably,” Chris said. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” Stiles said, leaning forward and kissing Chris on his cheek then on his lips softly. When his beard felt good, Stiles kissed him again, opening his mouth and taking his lower lip between both of his. Chris moaned softly and Stiles pulled away, eyeing the open door. “Get some sleep.”

“Stay in here with me awhile.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” Stiles said, turning off his lamp and settling down beside Chris, fitting against his side and watching the small TV in the dark, listening to Chris breathing as he slid closer and closer to sleep beside him.


	11. Chapter 11

Peter was still in his office when Deuc came in and nosed his thigh. He turned down his music and looked down at him. Then Deuc turned and left the room. Peter pushed up from his chair and went into the hall, he expected Deuc to be waiting in front of Chris and Stiles’s door, but he was at the top of the stairs before he went down into the darkness of the lower floor. Peter followed him, expectedly into the kitchen, most likely wanting to go outside, but when he stepped in, Deuc was seating at Chris’s side where he was sitting at the kitchen table. The only light came from the overhead light of the vent hood above the stove. Chris’s shoulders were hunched with his head resting on his arms.

Peter prodded gently at his mental state. He was asleep, but he was hearing Peter’s footsteps, and processing them into his dreams. Peter couldn’t see what the dreams were, not without going deeper than he cared to. Instead he pressed gently like leveraging a tin can lid, very softly, gently enough not to be cut by the jagged edges.

“Chris,” he said softly, reaching toward him when he felt more awareness coming back into Chris’s thoughts. He wouldn’t quite call him awake, but he was somewhere in between. “Did you need something down here?”

Chris looked around the darkened room, like it would help him even if the lights were on. “I don’t know,” he said eventually.

Peter went to the cabinet and took a glass before filling it with water from the fridge before getting one of Chris’s anti-anxiety pills. He took Chris’s wrist and put the pill in his hand. Chris didn’t question, he just raised it to his mouth and swallowed it with the water. When he finished the glass, Peter put it back in the sink.

“Are you ready to go back to bed?”

Chris looked around the room again, toward the only light before he nodded. Instead of struggling up, he held out his arm and Peter bent down, pulling it around his shoulders until Chris was standing. Chris leaned into his side. When they were at the bottom of the stairs, Peter felt Chris breath out against his neck before he felt his forehead against his shoulder.  

“I hate these fucking stairs.”

“I know,” Peter said.

There was something fleeting, some feeling that brushed against Peter, just enough that he knew Chris didn’t know he wasn’t Stiles. When they took the first step, he let the tendrils of his mind reach out when he felt the pulse of pain in his peripheral. The tendrils wound in like vines through Chris’s tendons. If Peter closed his eyes and allowed it, he would see his body from the inside out in flashes. He heard the dull snap of bone and faintly heard someone scream before he focused more on the steps and less on cushioning Chris’s knee.

“Shit,” Chris said, even with Peter cushioning some of the pain.

Peter could see his face clenched tightly in the light of the upper floor. He rubbed his back and pulled him closer, to take more of the weight. He felt something brush against the back of his legs and looked back to Deuc walking right behind Chris. When they reached the upper floor, Chris sighed hard and Peter paused to let him rest before he led him to his and Stiles’s bedroom.

Stiles stirred at the slant of light that fell across the bed. He didn’t seem to process what he was seeing until Peter was helping Chris into the bed, pulling back the blankets. The linens smelled like sleep, similar to the way that his and Stiles’s always had, but just the faintest difference.

“Is he okay?” Stiles asked, starting to sit up and moving Chris’s pillow and pulling the blankets up around him. Chris was already falling back to sleep.

“He was just downstairs,” Peter asked.

Then Deuc jumped on the bed and Peter watched him settle with his stomach against Chris’s thighs. Peter ran his fingers through the wolf’s fur. Stiles reached across Chris and held his forearm.

“You could’ve woken me up. He’s not your responsibility,” Stiles said.

“I don’t mind,” Peter said, quietly so he didn’t wake Chris, even as he urged him to sleep deeper. “I was already awake.”

Stiles stared into his eyes, the office light just bright enough to see that his eyes weren’t black, but a deep brown. Finally, he squeezed his arm gently and pulled away.

“Thanks,” he said.

Peter covered his hand before he turned and left their room, leaving the door cracked for Deuc to come and go as he pleased before he went back into his office. When he sat at his desk, he took Chris’s packet of papers from the Veterans’ Hospital and flipped through it until he was staring at the badly copied x-ray of his knee cap. He stared at it with his mind racing until his head stared to ache faintly.

 

 

The next afternoon, it was drizzling when Stiles pulled into the dirt drive of the house he and Chris used to live in. The realtor’s white Cadillac was to the side of the driveway. Chris used to keep it graveled, but the stones were so worn down it was completely mud as Stiles stepped out and pulled up his hood before walking around the truck. He could hear the realtor’s cheery voice from the porch, he gave her a partial wave as he went to passenger side and helped Chris who was already starting to get out of the truck.

“Son of a bitch, this fucking rain,” Chris said, letting Stiles pull his arm around his shoulders as he stepped out of the truck then faltered. “Fuck.”

“I gotcha,” Stiles said, tightening his hold on Chris’s shoulder. When he was steady, Stiles kept his arm around his back and closed the door behind them as they walked toward the steps.

“This feels strange,” Chris said.

“Yeah it does,” Stiles said.

“How are you both?” the realtor, Kathrine, asked. “We could’ve had better weather, huh?”

“People in Hell want water, what’re you gonna do,” Chris said, holding out his hand.

She laughed. “Very true. I’m Kathrine. You must be Chris.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“And you’re Stiles,” she said, turning to Stiles and shaking his hand too while he nodded. “So you two used to own this house?”

“It was in Chris’s name, but yeah. We lived here,” Stiles said.

“Did you two move out of the area or…?” she asked as she unlocked the realtor key box on the doorknob.

“Long story,” Stiles said.

“Ah,” she said.

They stood in the quiet of the rain coming down off the porch and Kathrine messing with the realty box before the door was open and she held it up for them. Stiles walked in behind Chris and the smell of stale air filled his lungs.

“Jesus Christ,” Chris said under his breath.

The color of the walls looked different in the dim lighting. The base boards were dirty. The hole in the wall stared at him. The one by the kitchen. Stiles broke a small bone in his hand when he did that. In the few days after he got the news and it wasn’t going away. When she flipped on the lights, Stiles stared up at the light fixture.

Chris walked through the small living room, empty, his wet boots leaving prints in the dust before he touched the hole in the dry wall.

“I guess the people before didn’t take much care of it.”

“I did that,” Stiles said. “There’s another one in the bedroom.”

Stiles stood in the place he remembered falling when it actually hit him. He looked at the ceiling to keep his eyes from burning. Kathrine had been saying something about the windows, but she went quiet as they both lingered. Chris moved into the kitchen, Stiles could hear him flipping the lights on, his footsteps in the breakfast nook.

“Stiles,” Katherine asked quietly, before she came to his side. “He is blind isn’t he? I can’t tell and I don’t want to be rude.”

“Mostly.”

“You know if the bank, I know the house was foreclosed in his name. He most likely wouldn’t be able to get a mortgage on it.”

“Yeah he would,” Stiles said, finally giving up and wiping beneath his eyes. “Extenuating circumstances.”

“Have you been pre-approved?”

“We’re already set up through the VA. Trust me-,” then he stopped and looked at her. Her concerned looking older face, older than his mother, the faint scent of some expensive, but fairly common perfume coming from her clothes. “He was a POW for five years. I lost the house when I didn’t get his benefits. At this point, they’ll just about bend of backwards for him.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said before he followed Chris. He stopped in the entrance to the kitchen, where he could still speak low enough that only Kathrine would hear. “It won’t be this house. I just had to see it.”

To his surprise, she smiled faintly and nodded. “I understand. We’ll have plenty of other options. I’ll wait for you two in here.”

“Thanks,” he said, before turning and following Chris through the kitchen and back to the bedrooms.

He found him in the small master bathroom. He was looking at the clawfoot tub and rubbing a large crack contrasting with the dirty porcelain.

“That’d have to be replaced.”

“Yeah, so would all of the windows,” Stiles said. “And appliances.”

“That’d be pricey,” Chris said.

“It’s at the low end of the budget though,” Stiles said, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“True.”

When they lived here, they’d been a lot more interested in going to the bar every other weekend and having money to blow than they had been on the house they lived in. It wasn’t that it was bad, but it wasn’t great. It just was what it was. A small three bedroom on an old country road, the last before the pavement ran out and it turned to dirt and gravel.

Stiles looked back into the bedroom. Dust and a small ball of what looked like dog hair was in the corner. The hole was still by the window. That was around the time he decided it wasn’t even good for him to be there, if he could stay. It wasn’t good for him to wake up to an empty house, to reach across the bed and know that Chris wasn’t just on deployment, but that he was gone and he would never lay there again.

When Chris left the bathroom, he went down the short hall to the back porch. The rain pattered on the tin roof. The cool damp breeze came through the mesh screen all around them. Stiles’s eyes burned as he looked around. The table they had kept their radio on was still in the corner, so covered in dust it looked like it was going to be absorbed by the dusty planks beneath it.

He remembered dancing with Chris, slightly drunk and laughing as they two stepped. Chris had led for the first few weeks, spinning Stiles on a turn and it only felt slightly strange to be in the roll he’d always pictured women in. He remembered the orange glow of the porch light flashing around him and Chris’s firm hands on his sides when it sometimes made him dizzy. He would never let him fall. Back when everything was new and it never felt like he wouldn’t be there.

He had almost burned it down.

Drunk on bourbon and smoking the last of a pack of Marlboro longs. He could still imagine the dead weeds growing up along the edge of the house. He had lit them, but for some reason the siding of the house didn’t. He had tried again then drove to his dad’s, he cussed him for driving drunk, and half threw him on the couch, but he woke up with his shoes off and a blanket over him.

The next day they packed what they wanted and Stiles took the keys to the bank.

“What do you think?” Chris asked.

Stiles looked at him.

He wasn’t even the same man that had lived here.

Neither was he.

“It’s kind of a long drive to work,” he said.

Chris nodded. “Is Peter’s closer?”

“Like ten minutes or so. Mostly the roads are just better.”

Chris nodded. “There’s the flood plain a little ways up too. I forgot about that.”

Stiles nodded then just shook his head. “I can’t do this one. Sorry.”

“I understand,” Chris said, reaching out for him.

Stiles moved into his reach and let himself be held against his chest. He hugged him back, breathing in the scent of his body in a place he never thought he’d have it again. He didn’t feel like man he used to hold out here, but the way he rubbed his cheek against his head and ran his hands up his back made him shiver. Stiles listened to the rain falling against the tin, gray light against his closed eyelids. It felt like golden light spinning had happened in another life, to someone else.

 

Chris was laying in front of the TV downstairs, watching the vague outlines of the people on screen moving. Stiles was upstairs, barricaded in the office or their bedroom, getting caught up on grading. Chris was debating on whether or not to take a nap out of sheer boredom when he heard someone come down the stairs. He heard the refrigerator in the kitchen open and the sliding glass door open, then the click of Deuc’s toenails on the tile before they came into the living room, followed by Peter’s footsteps. He didn’t know how he could tell the difference between his and Stiles’s footsteps, but he could.

“What are you watching?” Peter asked.

“I’m not sure. It started when another show ended,” Chris said, looking up at him from where he laid.

“Are you invested or do you want to come get high?”

Chris smiled slightly, looking up at Peter. He couldn’t really see his facial expression, but it had been a long time since he’d been asked that question and even longer since it sounded so casual.

“On?”

“Weed,” Peter said. “I’d normally smoke with Stiles, but he’s being a neurotic tweaker about his grading. We won’t see him for another hour at least and I have writer’s block, so I’m doing nothing productive.”

“Yeah? Does getting stoned normally help out the writer’s block?” Chris asked, hearing sarcasm in his own voice and a little shocked by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d good naturedly been a smart ass.

“No, but if I’m not going to be productive, I should at least be high,” Peter said.

Chris laughed slightly. He went to push himself up, but took Peter’s arm when he held it out. He was stronger than his frame implied. When he was on his feet, he followed Peter down a small hallway at the other side of the living room. It was the one section of the lower floor he hadn’t gone through. The hall was short and emptied into a large dim room.

Chris squinted and looked around him.

“Plants?”

“Mhm,” Peter said. “I love plants.”

Chris walked around the edges of the room and looking at the shelves lined on the glass panes. He couldn’t really see color, sometimes he thought he could, but he couldn’t tell if it was the truth or if he just had a strong enough imagination to fabricate blues and reds occasionally. He would like to be able to see what was in front of him, though. There were so many, of all different kinds.

“I don’t have much seating. There’s a couch, but the cushions are terrible. I normally sit on the floor in here,” Peter said.

“That’s fine,” Chris said, but when he turned and went to sit down, Peter came closer and let him brace himself on his arm, helping him to the ground with his back against the couch. “I like sitting on the floor,” he said, wincing. “Just have to get situated in the first place.”

“I’m sure,” Peter said.

Peter sat a little ways from him on the same rug. Chris watched him take a box and mess with the contents before he took a bong from inside of a table beside him. Chris leaned his head back against the couch and looked around at the walls until Peter pushed the bong against his leg.

“There you go.”

“Thanks,” Chris said, picking up the bong and taking the lighter Peter offered.

A small voice in the back of his head piped up that this should be weird. It shouldn’t feel fine to choose to sit in a room with a man Stiles was engaged to, accept his drugs, and it all feel normal. Then he almost laughed, a bitter bile tasting sound. There wasn’t a normal for him anymore. He kissed normal goodbye when he felt his Humvee vibrate and some part of his mind said, _IED_ while another said, _earthquake_. Then there had been the heat and pain.

He shook his head and felt along the bong until he could feel the bowl. He flicked the lighter twice before the flame caught. His mouth filled with saliva at the smell and taste as he inhaled and filled the tube with pale smoke. He stopped on a shallow inhale, pulling the carp and filling his lungs. He felt the slight burn at the back of his throat and coughed up smoke before exhaling and trying to hand the bong to Peter, who pushed it back to him.

“I have another.”

Then Peter pushed something against his leg and Chris picked up the bottle of water, taking a drink to sooth the little burn. He remembered the taste. He remembered sitting on his and Stiles’s back porch, listening to the rain coming down and the radio in the corner. He remembered watching Stiles sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, the sound of his grinder rhythmic and methodic.  

After he drank, he took another long, slow hit.

“Did you ever smoke often?” Peter asked.

“When I was a kid, off and on when I was older,” Chris said, blowing out the smoke. There was so much vegetation in the room. He could smell it. It was strong, but good, earthy and sweet. 

“A kid?”

“I started when I was nine,” he said, closing his eyes as he felt the fogginess start to kick in. He’d forgotten how quickly it kicked in. Maybe he’d only become a light-weight. Either way was fine with him.

“How were you getting weed at nine?” Peter asked. He was sitting on the rug beside him, but he was stretched backward, braced on his hands with his legs stretched in front of him.

“My dad was a drug manufacturer,” he said.

“Meth?”

“That and black tar heroin.”

“Mm lovely,” Peter said. “Did you try them?”

Chris nodded. “Thank God neither of them took. I drank a lot and smoked weed. That’s about as bad as I was.”

“Was your father an addict?”

“If he was, he didn’t do it in front of us, but I didn’t live with him pretty much from the time I was twelve until I enlisted. I stayed there enough to make him think he still had control, but for the most part I was with my grandparents.”

“How did you get along with them?”

“Loved them,” Chris said, inhaling again and drawing deeper as his chest ached. The last time he saw his grandparents he was deploying. He remembered hugging his grandpa and thinking it may be the last time. He had felt frail like he never really had before, but he hadn’t gained his weight back after the stroke and the ensuing hospital stay he had six months before.

“Have they passed?”

“I’m sure. They were close to their nineties when I deployed the last time.”

“That isn’t so old.”

“That’s old as shit,” Chris said, putting the bong to the side and leaned back against the couch. “What about your family? Do you like them?”

“I do. They can be assholes like anyone, but we’re all close.”

“And they’re all in California?”

“Most of them.”

“How did you end up here?” Chris asked.

“There’s a dire shortage of psychiatrists in Oklahoma,” Peter said. “There isn’t a residency program, so when the newly made doctors earn their degrees they’re leaving the state and staying gone. When I took placement over a psychiatry ward in Tulsa the wait time to see most psychiatrist in the city was four months for new patients.”

“But you don’t practice,” Chris said.

“I thought I could handle being back in a psychiatry ward. It’s where I did most of my residency, but I couldn’t. I stayed for two years and they were soul sucking. I could only see the same faces coming through again and again, because they wouldn’t take their medications, even the ones that could afford them. They wouldn’t stay on their programs. Of course, I had many that I never saw again. They got better, I hope they have good lives, but it’s the ones that return or that you hear that they’ve committed suicide, those draw the life out of you.”

Chris heard the bubbling of water and saw the foggiest outline of Peter drawing from another bong nearly the same size as the one beside him. He listened to him inhale for a long time before he blew a pale cloud of smoke against the dark ceiling.

“I practiced privately until last year. I would see patients on weekends or after my class periods. Then I was given the opportunity to write another book and I took it.”

“How was it doing it privately?”

“Better,” Peter said. “When it’s privatized, people were seeking me out. They weren’t being forced to see me by other doctors because they had slit their wrists or overdosed. They wanted to get better. With the hours I offered I saw a lot of workaholics. It’s selfish, but I prefer to see the highly functioning. I want to see my patients get better. I don’t want to see them back slide. I don’t want to see them being addicted to crank and alcohol, ruining their lives and everyone’s around them.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the job for you,” Chris said, his head swimming and his thoughts loose. He almost apologized for it before Peter shook his head.

“No. I wouldn’t take any of it back. For the people I’ve been lucky enough to help, it’s been worth it.”

“You helped Stiles.”

“I was able to help Stiles,” Peter said before he drew another cloud into the tube. It was a long quiet moment, listening to the water and him breathing before he coughed slightly. “He’s like the sun. For years he’s been behind clouds. I only helped thin the covering. You’re bringing out the brightness again.”

Chris was close to calling him out for the poetic bullshit, the romanticism, but his thoughts were loose enough and Peter’s voice was low and soothing. And he wasn’t wrong. Stiles was like the sun. He always had been such a bright vibrant little shit.

“How long were you engaged?”

“Two years,” Peter said. “He was never going to marry me, Chris. I was okay with that.”

“Why?” Chris asked, looking toward him. His head felt heavy, but not in a bad way. It was there and steady. He could feel his feet and hands tingling with the temperature of the room. He couldn’t tell if it was due to heat or cold.

“Why what?” Peter asked.

“Why would you stay with someone who wouldn’t marry you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been asked by my family, asked myself, and it always comes to the same reason, the reason I love him is the same reason he wouldn’t marry me. I love him for his passion, his loyalty, his capacity for love,” Peter said like he was reciting from a list, like he was doing a reading and speaking to a group, his voice rising and falling leaving Chris listening closely to every word. “If his reasoning for not marrying me had been any less I would’ve left, but I couldn’t hold being in love against him. Not when he had enough room for me in his heart too.”

“You think that?”

“What do I think?”

“That someone is capable of loving two people.”

“Of course they are,” Peter said. “We love our families, our pets, our hobbies, sometimes our possessions. The human soul’s capacity for love is limitless. Our only stumbling blocks are insecurities, jealousies, self-consciousness. But I know what I am to Stiles. I know that he loves me and I know that that love has nothing to do with the love he has for you and hasn’t tarnished it in the slightest.”

Chris shook his head, staring, zoned out on the upper glass shelf against the large window. It was dark outside. It looked like it would rain again.

“Why are you shaking your head?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know how you’re so confident.”

Peter laughed, surprising him. For once it actually sounded like a real laugh, not condescending or pretentious.

“Be with a man for three years, carve your own spot in his heart, then see how you feel.”

“Are you still confident?” Chris asked, looking toward him.

“He still loves me. I’ve never known if the depth compares, but I know he does.”

“I’m sure he does,” Chris said.

“How does that make you feel?”

Chris frowned, letting his eyes slide away from Peter’s and wonder over the gray tonal masses of the room. His mind sank over itself, skimming over what he’d felt with Stiles the last few weeks and what they had the years before. He shook his head.

“Less than I thought it would.”

“It makes you feel less?”

“I don’t care,” Chris said. “At least right now. I don’t care that he loves you. I know he loves me.”

“There’s no doubt,” Peter said. Then he moved until he was sitting upright. “Can I try something with your knee?”

“You can’t hurt it anymore,” Chris said.

He watched Peter come across the rug until he was sitting at his foot. He leaned forward, touching his upper thigh and slowly working down where Chris could feel the cotton of his pants pressing tighter against the swelling.

“Was this broken in the IED?”

“No. I don’t know when it happened. It was quite a while after they captured me. One of them held my foot and another kicked it in.”

The weed helped. The high helped cushion the words. The pressure of Peter’s solid touch on his leg helped.

“And it cracked?”

Chris nodded.

“I’m amazed that you’re still able to walk. You shouldn’t be able to,” Peter said, rubbing his hands down his thigh in nearly the same way Chris did when the pain was at its worst and he just needed it to stop.

“There was a medic with me then. He reset it as well as he could.”

Peter barely nodded before his palms were lightly skimming the swollen and twisted joint. “When you were in the hospital did they tell you what they wanted to do?”

“Replacement. They talked about reconstruction, but they think replacement is better.”

“Probably,” Peter said. “You have bone shards in it.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can feel them,” Peter said, but his hands were barely touching his pants, barely skimming the joint at all. “I’m going to roll up the leg of your pants, stay still.” Chris nodded and Peter started to push up the fabric until the cooler air of the room was touching his knee cap. Even he could see how malformed it was. “I want you to take a deep breath in when I tell you to and hold it until I say, okay?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something to help,” Peter said, “Close your eyes and tilt your head back against the cushions.”

Chris stared where he thought Peter’s eyes were and he could feel Peter looking back at him. Finally, he closed his eyes and leaned back.

“Deep breath through your nose,” Peter said quietly, his hands on either side of his knee.

Chris inhaled.

“Let it out, slowly, feel it leaving your lungs,” Peter said.

Chris breathed out, feeling the smallest twinge inside of his knee. Peter’s thumbs worked softly on either side. Normally, he couldn’t touch it. Even the thought of touching could make him sick to his stomach. It didn’t hurt though, Peter’s hands were warm, almost as warm as the heating pad.

“Deep breath in through your nose,” Peter said again.

Chris inhaled again.

Then he felt a sharp pain toward the inner part of his knee. Chris’s breath came out hard, but the stinging stayed, burning hot up into his thigh.

“Almost finished. Another breath-,” Peter said.

Chris squeezed his eyes closed and took another deep breath as the stinging intensified then it felt like his skin broke. He could feel blood leaking out then it was gone. The pain. The feeling of blood on his skin. He opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see any variation that would be blood, that would be an opening.

“Does that feel any better?” Peter asked.

Chris frowned at him barely flexing his knee. It wasn’t great, but it did feel better. The inside didn’t ache with the sharp burning pain.

“What did you do?”

“I rubbed your pressure points.”

Chris flexed his knee barely again, looking at Peter again. It was far from healed, but the sharpest edge of the pain was gone.

 “It helped?”

Chris nodded. “You didn’t rub a pressure point.”

“I did. Sometimes that’s all it takes to help,” Peter said, scooting back. He took another hit from his bong and Chris did the same, just to have something to do with his hands. “So your father, is he alive?”

“Don’t know,” Chris said, holding his breath then letting it out. “Don’t give a shit if he is.”

“What about your mom?”

“Same.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I cut them contact early and I’ve never regretted it.”

“Then aside from your grandparents is their anyone you did like? Someone we should be contacting?”

Chris frowned. His brother. He should’ve called him the same day he called Stiles, but the thought of it had been exhausting after hearing how upset Stiles was. Coming back from the dead took recuperation.

“Eventually my older brother. I was close with him.”

 “That’s something you should work toward. Saying he would love to hear from you is probably a gross understatement.”

“I know,” Chris said, frowning. He could feel cool pressure on his forehead. It was his anxiety for whatever reason, when he smoked he felt it pressing on his skin more than he felt it inside. Then Peter touched his arm with the back of his hand.

“Work toward. Not today,” he said, his skin warm against his own.

He nodded and inhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I know.”

Then the tingling on his forehead was a lot less. He took another deep breath through his nose. He could smell something like mint. Then again with as much greenery as Peter had in here, there may be mint somewhere beside him. His lungs expanded easier. He didn’t have to do anything today. He didn’t have to make any calls that were going to fuck with peoples’ lives. He didn’t have to do that until he was ready.

“Stiles said you didn’t have much communication with anyone when you were overseas? Does that include your brother?”

“I’d call him every once in a while. I talked to my grandparents once every two weeks. My grandma would send packages sometimes, but Stiles and his family were by the people I talked to most.”

“Even before you talked to Stiles did you talk to John often?”

Chris nodded. “About as often as my grandparents. Claudia sent packages a lot.”

“What the fuck? I go to do work and you two are in here getting stoned like a pair of fucking heathens.”

Chris looked up and back at Stiles standing in the doorway. He couldn’t help laughing. It felt good to laugh and the indignation was perfect. He’d missed the sound of it on Stiles’s voice. He had missed that little shit’s voice so badly his chest clenched suddenly. He had missed him so much.

“I’m crashing,” Stiles said, sitting down beside Chris and taking his bong and lighter.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Peter asked.

“If I have to correct one more _there, their_ or _they’re_ , I’m burning my computer,” Stiles said before he pressed his lips against the top of the bong and drew another hit.

“You poor abused thing,” Peter said.

Chris snorted. He could see enough to see Peter smile and Stiles flip him off before he was dragging Peter’s box over and loading a new bowl. Then there was quiet music, something quiet and bluesy. Chris didn’t know how long it had been playing. He didn’t know where it was coming from. He closed his eyes and let it tunnel into his head. Whoever was singing had a nice voice, a quiet, but strong steady beat to the music behind it.

“I can’t believe you got high with him first,” Stiles said.

“You should’ve done it sooner then,” Peter said.

“I didn’t know if it would clash with his meds, _doc,_ ” Stiles said.

“Well we won’t know unless we try, now will we?” Peter asked.

“Seriously?” Stiles started. “You didn’t know-.”

Chris put his hand on Stiles’s chest before opening his eyes. “I feel good, but you’re wrecking it, so take another hit and calm your little ass down.”

Stiles mimicked his voice under his breath and Chris laughed. A real honest to god laugh that almost hurt with how unfamiliar it felt. He’d forgotten Stiles did that. Then Stiles and Peter were both laughing, probably at the fact that he couldn’t stop. When he finished, Stiles put the bong in his hands again and he took another hit.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles said, knocking the back of his hand against his chest. “You remember Dad catching us at your house that one time?”

Chris nodded, laughing slightly as he exhaled. Thankfully it had been after John had calmed down on their whole relationship in the first place. He hadn’t been happy, but he’d mostly just given them both disapproving looks before leaving.

“Well he caught me and Peter too, except we were hotboxing Peter’s car out on 350Rd.”

Peter laughed. “I’d almost forgotten about that.”

“How the fuck?” Stiles asked, leaning forward. He had gotten another bong. It took Chris a moment to realize it wasn’t his and must be the one Peter was using. “I nearly had a heart attack when I saw those lights come on.”

Peter laughed harder. He had a nice laugh. Him laughing made Chris laugh and imagining Stiles’s face. With his large brown eyes he had mastered the deer caught in the headlights expression. He still remembered when John knocked on his front door so many years ago and he had had his hand up Stiles’s shirt, kissing him and pressing him into the couch, both of their mouths tasting of weed. Stiles had jumped hard enough to elbow him in the chest and then they hadn’t really had a chance to air out the room, Chris just put the bong behind the couch and put away the weed. Still as soon as John walked in he had frozen and given them both a look, what Stiles called his _Dad look,_ but what other people probably only knew as his _sheriff look._

“We didn’t have nearly enough to go to jail,” Peter said.

“My dad is the sheriff!”

“Yes I know. Even more reason not to freak out,” Peter said.

Chris laughed again. It probably shouldn’t be funny to hear them talk to each other like that, but he could tell that was a common tone. Peter was a smart ass. It was good to know. He had seemed polished or something, hearing that façade broken even a small amount was nice.

“He tried to air out the car before John got to the door, Chris,” Peter said.

Chris laughed harder.

“You guys are assholes,” Stiles said.

“You may have a type,” Peter said.

Chris laughed harder and heard Peter laugh at his own words. Vaguely, Chris saw Stiles flip Peter off again before he picked up the water beside Chris’s leg and took a drink. Chris closed his eyes and drifted slightly, listening to Peter and Stiles talk about work, people they knew there, and grading Stiles was doing. It all slid over him as he relaxed, one hand finding Stiles’s arm leg and the other above his head.

Their voices kept him from drifting too far, from wandering to the shitty things it could so easily. He didn’t sleep, but he rested while they talked, and felt at peace.


	12. Chapter 12

After dinner with his parents, Stiles sat in one of the rocking chairs on his dad’s back porch. Across the barbed wire fence, Digger was chasing a rabbit. It was gone before she even really knew it was there, but Stiles watched her gray merle fur pop through the tangles of underbrush and overgrown alfalfa. 

 Inside, his mom was talking to Chris. Their voices drifted through the open window and screen door, just enough to hear that she was asking him questions and the low mumble of his answers.  

 “We’re not going to be able to do this soon,” John said. 

 “Yeah I know,” Stiles said. 

 “Did you guys get salt yet?” 

 “No. I’ll stop by the store and get some tomorrow after work.” 

 “If you don’t get to it, I can have someone bring some out. I’d hate for Chris to fall with the ice.” 

 “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get some.” 

 John’s chair creaked quietly as he pushed himself forward and back. “Peter knew we didn’t care if he came, didn’t he?” 

 “Yeah,” he said. The cuticle of his thumb stung as he bite it. “He had something going on with his buddies.” 

 “That’s too bad.” 

 “Yeah. He’ll be at dinner next week if you come to the house I’m sure.”

 John nodded. “Any updates on the house hunt?” 

 “There’s shit for sell,” Stiles said. “It’s either the additions outside of town and I’d rather cut my arm off than pay what they’re asking, or we can get an old house and update. That’s laughable with the shape Chris is in. They gave him good back pay and I’m sure he’ll get more in severance, but I don’t want to drop a chunk of it on the house.” 

 “What does Peter say?” 

 “He doesn’t care. He says we can stay as long as we need to.” 

 “That’s nice of him.” 

 “Yeah,” Stiles said, spitting out the small shred of skin he’s bitten off and rubbing his stinging finger on his jeans.  

 “Have you talked to Elias?” John asked. 

 Stiles kept rubbing his finger on his jeans. It had started to bleed. 

 “Kid,” John said. Stiles didn’t look up to see him shaking his head. He could hear it in his voice. 

 “Chris hasn’t done it and he doesn’t want to.” 

 “I don’t care what he wants,” John said. “If someone kept something like that from me and your mom?” 

“I know.” 

 “Don’t say you know then not do anything about it,” John said. Stiles nodded, not meeting his eyes. “You need to call him.” 

 “Okay. God,” he said. 

 “Good,” John said. 

 Then the rusted spring of the back screen creaked and Chris came out with Claudia behind him. She put a black plastic tray of fruit and vegetables on the wicker table. Stiles grabbed a carrot and watched Chris start to sit in one of the rockers facing them. He found the arms then slowly lowered himself in the seat with a small wince. 

 “Okay?” Stiles asked before he could help himself. 

 “I’m fine,” Chris said. 

 Claudia handed him a glass of tea and Chris felt her fingers and the cup before she let it go. Stiles leaned back and flipped through his phone while he chewed his carrot and listened to them talk. In the field, Digger started to bark. He stared at Chris’s older brother’s contact information in his phone as her bark echoed from the vinyl siding of the house and the low hills. 

 

 ***

On Monday, Peter knocked on Chris and Stiles’s bedroom door at just after noon. It came slightly more open under the pressure. It was just enough to see the light was off and no one was on the bed. When he didn’t get an answer, he pushed the door open farther. The bathroom light spilled on the tan carpeting in the dim lighting with all of the shades drawn. 

 “Chris?” he asked. 

 “In here,” Chris said from the bathroom. 

 Peter found him sitting on the closed toilet lid only wearing a pair of boxers. For the first time, he could see the extent of the scarring on his legs. They went all the way to his thighs and disappeared beneath the legs of his underwear. The air around him palpated. It made the raised red skin covering his chest and arms seem angrier. 

 “What’s wrong?” Peter asked. 

 Chris looked up and the right side of his jaw was swollen. 

 “Tooth ache.” 

 “It looks like it,” Peter said. “I can help you get dressed and take you to the dentist.” 

 “No. They’re just going to give me antibiotics and pain pills. I have both.” 

 “But they can get treatment scheduled.” 

 Chris shook his head. “They already have it scheduled. They want to pull five or six of them. They’re broken at the gum.” 

 “Then why wouldn’t you want them pulled?” 

 “I don’t want to be in dentures by the time I’m fifty.” 

 The gray of the bathroom wall wavered behind him. The paint color was dulled with red for a moment turning it purple in Peter’s eyes. 

 “Have you taken a pain pill?” 

 “They don’t help,” Chris said. “Do you have a needle?” 

 “Why?” 

 “I want to drain it. Take some of the pressure off.” 

 “I’ll look.” 

 He left their bedroom and went down the hall to his own. Most of Stiles’s toiletries were still on his side of the vanity. Peter dug through his messy drawers before going through his own side, organized in baskets. He found a needle, still in the sewing casing, and a bottle of alcohol. He kept latex gloves beneath the sink for the cleaning woman that came twice a month and for instances like this. He pulled on the blue gloves and poured alcohol over the needle. 

 He filled the glass Stiles used to rinse his mouth with with warm water and added epsom salt. He juggled the materials in his arms as he went back to Chris and Stiles’s bathroom. Chris hadn’t moved from the toilet, holding the side of his face, and not looking up. 

 “I’m going to make some salt water solution for you to rinse with after we lance this. You’ll spit it back into the cup, don’t swallow,” he said. 

 “Okay,” Chris said. 

 Peter waited until their was steam rising from the faucet before he filled the cup then swirled in some salt. He went back to Chris and crouched in front of him. When Chris held out his hand like he could take the needle, Peter pushed it down. 

 “Recognize your limitations unless you want a lip piercing while we’re at it,” Peter said. “Open and look up toward the light.” 

 Chris did as he said and Peter pulled out his cheek. His both of his molars on the lower left were broken, but beneath the last was a large yellowed bubble on his gum. Pain tingled at Peter’s fingertips through the gloves, like water feeling a crack in a wall. 

 “I’m going to put a small hole, just enough to drain the pressure, okay?” 

 Chris nodded. 

 “Stay still,” Peter said before he put the needle in Chris’s mouth, lined it up, and gave two short pricks to the swollen knot in Chris’s gum. Immediately large globs of thick infection broke through the thin skin. Peter put down the needle and started to massage Chris’s jaw. Chris tried to pull away, but Peter held him still. 

 “Stop touching it,” Chris said. The palpation of red increased. 

 Peter stripped off his gloves and put his hand back on Chris’s face, letting just a fraction of that pain that was attempting to cross, come into him. 

 “Breathe. It’ll help,” Peter said. 

 “The water,” Chris said. “Tastes like shit.” 

 Peter handed him the glass of salt water by his leg. “Swish and spit it back into the cup.” 

 Chris drank and started to swish. The glass fell from his hand and shattered on the tile as he flinched and put his face in his hands. He started to rock slightly as the red in the air increased, the scent of pain was sharp and acidic, like pure ammonia. 

 He tried to put his hand back on Chris’s cheek, but Chris knocked it away. Peter pressed harder, landing too hard on Chris’s jaw and making him groan. He slid the floodgates up marginally higher and let the pain come faster across the barrier. It slammed him, wedging the barrier open like a tidal wave. It started just beneath his own lower molar, beginning with the faint phantom ache he was used to, and building. Then his spine started to throb, his knee, his eyesight went dull. For a few heartbeats, he couldn’t see anything, but the shadow of Chris in front of him. 

 When it all swam back into focus, Peter lost his breath as he fumbled for the trashcan so Chris could spit the bloody water into it. There were large pools of water in his eyes before he closed them again and leaned his forehead on his hand, his elbow braced on his knee. Peter could feel the pulse of his heart beneath the heated skin of his cheek. 

 “Is it easing at all?” 

 “I think so,” Chris said. “I don’t understand how a toothache can even compete with everything else, but it just drowns it all when they come on like this.” 

 “It looks like you have half of a ping pong ball in your mouth. That’s can’t feel pleasant.” 

 Chris laughed slightly. Peter continued to massage the infection up and out of his jaw before he took Chris’s hand and put it where his was. 

 “Keep rubbing. Get as much of the fluid out as you can.” 

 Chris started to rub and Peter let himself stare at the scars littering his fingers for a handful of seconds. His index finger and pinky looked like they had been broken in multiple places. 

 He pushed himself up and started to clean up the shards of glass, gathering them in the largest piece of the cup left. 

 “I’m sorry,” Chris said.

 “Don’t worry about it,” Peter said. “Do you think it would help for you to take a bath? You could submerge to your jaw and see if the salt would help.” 

 “It’s worth a shot.” 

 Peter went to the tub and sat on the edge, testing the temperature against his hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” Chris said. 

 “I don’t mind.” 

 If he made anymore protest, it was drowned under the roar of the water filling the large tub below the window. The gray sky outside the window made it look colder than it was outside. The wind was tearing at the treetops in a way that would unsettle him in the spring, but this late in the year the chances of tornados were low. The risk of ice was high though.  

 When the water reached a high enough level, Peter poured in Epsom salt and stirred it in with his hand. He took two towels from beneath the sink, folded one in front of the tub like a rug, and left the second on the edge. 

 “I’ll be across the hall,” Peter said, as he shut off the water. 

 “Okay. Thank you.” 

 “Do you want a pain pill?” 

 “It’ll at least knock me out.” 

 “I’ll bring it up,” Peter said. 

 Chris nodded, not getting off the toilet. 

 Peter left the room, going down the hallway, then the stairs. He didn’t realize how bad the scent of pain had been until he was away from it. The faint clean scent of bleach came from the white tiles in the kitchen and the lemon scent from whatever the cleaning woman used on the counters that morning. He took down Chris’s morning pills before he grabbed a bottle of water, and opened the sliding glass door where Deucalion was waiting. He nosed Peter’s hands, his cold fur brushing his fingers before he was gone. Peter heard his feet on the stairs as he went to the pantry and grabbed a granola bar and a bag of chips. 

 He went back up the stairs and wasn’t surprised in the least to find Deucalion laying in front of Chris and Stiles’s bathroom door. Peter stepped over him and started to walk into the bathroom before he froze. 

 Chris was in the bathtub, his knees bent so he could submerge his body to his jaw. The red swaths of skin on his upper chest nearly glowed against the porcelain. Even years after the damage was done, the skin still looked puffy and slick. 

 Peter stepped back out of the room and went to Chris’s nightstand, leaving the water and the pill where he could reach it. Then he pulled the bedroom door closed and went to his office.

 

 

 It was nearly two hours after Peter helped Chris in the bathroom that he noticed his nose starting to run. He wiped it with a kleenex without paying attention until he had to do it again. Then the back of his throat began to feel puffy and raw. Peter stood up and went across the hall. 

 The door of Stiles and Chris’s room was closed, so he knocked. The door should be white, but it pulsed faintly with pink. 

 “Are you decent?” 

 There was a mumble on the other side, so Peter barely opened the door. Chris was laying in bed on his stomach, a heating pad tucked against his neck. Deucalion was laying on his legs.

 He coughed against the scent of smoke before forcing himself forward. 

 “You’re not doing any better, I’m assuming.” 

 “No,” Chris said. 

 What little areas of Chris’s face he could see were creased in pain. Peter went to the edge of the bed and touched his swollen jaw. The knot of inflammation was still there like every bit of liquid they had drained had been replaced and hardened. 

 “It feels worse,” Peter said. 

 “Stop touching it. It hurts.” 

 “Okay. Give me two minutes. I’ll touch your pressure points-.” 

 “That doesn’t work.” 

 “It worked on your knee,” Peter said. The line between Chris’s eyes deepened, but he laid still as Peter put his hand on the back of his neck, his thumb at the hinge of his jaw. The pain was so hot it felt cold. He gritted his teeth and let it start to siphon into him. “They want to pull all of them?” 

 “Not all of them,” Chris said. “In the explosion I was hit in the face with a piece of shrapnel then when I was prisoner they hit us in the face pretty often.” 

 Peter brushed his thumb against Chris’s skin before he could stop himself. The mental images swam across with the pain as that stream of consciousness was opened. He could feel how it felt to be hit in the face, the sound of his teeth slamming together, then he could feel hard ground beneath him. The air was thinner and unnaturally cold for being indoors with controlled heat and air. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his own jaw, feel a pounding in his skull, jaw, and throat. It swelled with a sense of hopelessness and misery that made his stomach feel hollow. 

He opened his own eyes again to try and make Chris’s memories recede. He couldn’t do more than try to ignore them as he bled Chris’s pain. 

 “We should schedule to have these pulled,” Peter said gently. “Having that amount of infection so close to your brain is dangerous.” 

 “I just starting to be able to eat food I want again. I don’t want to lose that, because I don’t have any fucking teeth to eat it with. I already can’t walk. I can’t see. I’m sick of it.” 

 “I can’t imagine,” Peter said, but he could, because Chris’s emotions were pulsing off of him. Anger. Sadness. But overshadowing it all was the all consuming feeling of hopelessness, of frustration. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know you don’t want pity and this isn’t. No one deserves to go through what you did.” 

 He felt Chris swallow against his hand. His arm was beginning to go numb from the sheer amount of pain, but he kept his place. If he could just make him sleep then he would stop. Feeling what he felt the idea of leaving him before he could sleep seemed beyond cruelty. 

 Then the bed shook and Deuc crawled up the mattress. He laid his head on Peter’s thigh and Peter put his hand on his head. His pure energy came through his palm and up his arm, filtering some of the sheer brunt of pain and stocking Peter’s own reserves of energy. 

 “I’ll stop bitching about your pressure point therapy,” Chris said muffled. 

 “You should.”

 Chris said, exhaling heavily. “You’re too nice.” 

 “I’m just not cruel. There’s a difference.” 

 “I guess,” Chris said. 

 Then he felt the strongest surge of distrust that was quickly drowned with relief. 

 It was less than a few minutes before Chris was adjusting the pillow beneath his cheek, then he was breathing deeply and evenly. Peter touched Chris’s cheek, the hard knot of infection and his memories ghosted through his mind. His chest ached. He felt soul sick. He leaned forward and kissed Chris’s temple, thinking just a strong enough thought, with just enough direction. He just needed him to be able to sleep without dreams and pain for a few hours. 

 The creases in Chris’s face had completely smoothed. The dark places and scarred webbing were still beneath his eyes, but he looked relaxed and younger than Peter had seen him. 

 When Peter stood, he staggered. The door and wall blurred as his own eyes watered as he went into his own bedroom and collapsed. He didn’t sob, but he cried. When he held his hand in front of him, he watched his fingers trembling as the overflow of emotion had to go somewhere. In the other room, he felt Chris’s energy pulsing evenly and deeply asleep. 

***

 Stiles pulled up to the feed store and put the truck into park. The wind was freezing on his fingers and face as he walked up the wooden steps to the tall concrete slab. The air was thick with the scent of straw, cedar chips, and horse feed. A few people milled between the short aisles, but no one was at the register as Stiles went up to the old man behind it. 

 “Five bags of salt.” 

 “You’re just in time. We’re running low,” the old man said. 

 “Yeah I saw,” Stiles said, taking out his bank card and handing it over. 

 “Do you have a generator?”

 “Yeah.” 

 “That’s good. They’re saying it could be as bad as 2011.” 

 “I hope not,” Stiles said, watching the old receipt printer, hearing it grunt and groan before it finally started to print. He signed it and gave it back. 

 “You need help loading it?” 

 “No thank you. Have a good one,” Stiles said, walking back out into the freezing air. He lowered the tailgate of the Silverado, lined up straight with the piles of 50 lbs salt bags. He threw his five into the back and climbed back into the cab with his fingers numb and cold. 

 As he pulled out of the parking lot, the sleet started to fall. His windshield wipers pushed the dirty slush to the corners of his window. The sun was passing behind the hills, the roads were already wet. When it was fully dark, they’d start to get slick. As it got colder, the sleet would start to freeze on the trees and powerlines. 

 Stiles turned up the radio and tried to ignore the pressure building in his chest as his mind started spinning as he drove the fifteen miles home. 

 

 

When he walked in the house, the only light on was coming from the kitchen. 

 “Peter? Chris?” he asked, looking into the living room. The TV was dark and blank. 

 Stiles jogged up the stairs and into the dark hallway. Peter’s office door was open, but it was empty. He cracked his and Chris’s bedroom door and looked in. Chris was passed out stomach down. Stiles waited long enough to see his back rise and fall before he pulled the door to and went to Peter’s room. 

 Peter was laying in bed too with the lights off. Deuc was curled in the center of the bed and Peter’s arm was over his middle. 

 “Peter?” Stiles asked from the door. Deuc opened his eyes, but Peter didn’t budge. Stiles sat on the bed and rubbed Peter’s shoulder. “Hey.” 

 Peter opened his eyes, but didn’t jerk like Chris would do. Then again, Stiles would never touch Chris in his sleep unless he was prepared to duck as soon as he did it, even before the last tour Chris had been a super jumpy sleeper. 

 “What’s up?” Stiles asked quietly, pressing the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead. 

Peter rolled onto his back and rubbed his fingers into his eyelids. Stiles watch his chest sink as he breathed out. 

 “What’s wrong?” Stiles asked, the tension that was already building in his chest amping. 

 Peter shook his head and when he opened his eyes, they were damp. “He had a toothache earlier.” 

 “Yeah? Did he go to the dentist?” 

 “He didn’t want to go,” Peter said. “I got rid of the infection.” 

 Stiles touched his face, brushing his thumb over Peter’s barely there stubble. “Thank you.” 

 Peter shook his head, the water in his eyes building. “Stop saying that,” he clenched his eyes and took a deep breath again, clenching his fingers in Deuc’s fur. “I’m fine. I just got tired.” 

 “Yeah,” Stiles said, then he leaned over and kissed Peter’s forehead. Peter put his hand on the back of his neck. His fingers were cool against his nape. Peter didn’t want to hear thanks, so he didn’t say it, but he felt it, gratitude so strong it made his chest hurt. 

 Finally he pulled away as he felt sleet pinging off the windows. 

 “I need to go salt the porch and the sidewalk. I’ll start dinner after,” Stiles said. 

 “I’ll help,” Peter said. 

 “No it’s fine. Just sleep.” 

 “I’m tired of sleeping,” Peter said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Then he pushed himself up and went to the closet. 

 Stiles sat on the bed and petted Duec’s large head on his lap. They both watched Peter take a jacket from the closet and find shoes. Something in Stiles’s chest felt like a bow string. There had been years of watching Peter get dressed just like that, talking while they got ready for things at the college, for dinner with his parents, just Peter getting dressed for bed. He was around him every single day and he still missed him like a phantom limb. 

 “Do I need to get him an appointment with a dentist?” Stiles asked, trying to keep the pain in his chest from building anymore. 

 “He said he’s already seen a dentist. They want to pull quite a few of them. I understand. They’re broken and decaying, but after they take out the ones they need to, he’s going to need partials and I don’t blame him for not wanting that.” 

 “They won’t cover implants? That’s fucking ridiculous.” 

 “Next time he goes, one of us will go with him and argue for him. Having an advocate goes a long way,” Peter said. 

 “Yeah.” 

 Stiles moved scooted closer and started to rub Peter’s shoulders, up against his neck, as Peter put on his shoes. Peter let his neck go limp and rolled into the pressure of his fingers. A little nagging voice in the back of his head said maybe they were pushing a line. Maybe. But it didn’t matter.

 Peter took one of his hands and dragged it around his body. He pressed his lips to Stiles’s fingers and held them there. 

 “He’s really bad?” Stiles asked quietly. 

 He heard Peter’s breathing hitch slightly before he nodded. Then he got up and went toward the door. 

 “We need to go do that before the storm settles in,” Peter said. 

 

***

 Peter could see his breath as he scooped salt from the large bag Stiles had brought home and shook it on the stoop. On the lower steps, Stiles was doing the same thing, then down the walk to the driveway. In the yellow glow of the porch light, sleet came down in silver streaks.

 “The generator has gas and stuff, right?” Stiles asked. 

 “It’s a little late to be asking that,” Peter said. 

 Stiles groaned. “Does it have enough or not? I can still go to the gas station if it doesn’t.” 

 “It has plenty. Just like it did when you asked two days ago.” 

 “Don’t be an asshole.” 

 “I don’t know why you’re stressed. It’s going to be fine. If it ices it ices.” 

 “Because we live fifteen miles outside of town with a guy that’s halfway crippled. What if he falls?” Stiles asked, straightening and wiping his sleeve beneath his red nose. “What if he runs out of medication? What if he has some kind of episode? I can’t drive for shit in ice.” 

 “I can drive fine in ice,” Peter said.

 “Yeah you say that, but you’re from California, so I don’t really believe you.” 

 “I went to school in Massachusetts.” 

 “I like how you say that to avoid saying Harvard. Trying to blend in with the commoners.” 

 “Oh love, I can’t _blend_ with commoners.” 

 Stiles laughed. Against the dark backdrop of the woods, he pulsed gold for a few moments. Peter watched before he started to layer the salt again. 

 “We’re going through this assuming that Chris will even want to go outside,” Peter said. “Who wants to go outside in an ice storm?” 

 “Chris,” Stiles said. “Getting him outside in the summer? You’ll play hell. Trying to keep him inside during the winter? Not happening.” 

 “Why?” 

 Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. They hunted a lot in the winter when he was young, but I think he just likes the cold.” 

 “I don’t know many people that do.” 

 “Me either. He’s weird,” Stiles said. 

 “Did he still like hunting before?” 

 “Yeah,” Stiles said. “He had a little PTSD before he deployed last time, but it never really affected him shooting guns. Even me and Dad. We could go out and shoot targets as long as it was one of us at a time. If two of us started then he would get a little stressed. Other than that, Fourth of July kind of bothered him if we went to Mom’s.” 

 “It’s loud in town like that.” 

 “Yeah the one time we went, he went home, and went to straight to bed.” 

 “I’m sure it  was mentally exhausting.” 

 Stiles came up the stairs and tossed his plastic cup on top of the bag of salt. Peter looked over the concrete again before putting his own cup on the railing. 

 “You look like you’re freezing,” Peter said, pressing the back of his hand to Stiles’s cheek. 

 “It’s freaking cold,” he said, tugging down the sleeves of his jacket. 

 Peter moved into his space and Stiles hugged him, pressing his cheek against Peter’s shoulder. His flannel jacket was damp and smelled of cigarettes. Peter pressed his face into the soft gray hood, his lips touching a small sliver of Stiles’s skin. 

 “When did you start smoking again?” 

 Stiles paused for a moment before squeezing him. “A few weeks ago. Stress I guess. I still had a few in my desk.” 

 “I’d be doing a case study on you if you weren’t.” 

 Stiles laughed and Peter felt it in his chest. His palms were warm against Stiles’s jacket. He urged it to seep past the layers of clothing until he felt Stiles’s sigh as he moved closer. 

 “You’re like a space heater.” 

 Peter closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against Stiles’s hair. People could question them until they were blue in the face and they would still never understand. They would never understand how much the erratic rhythm of Stiles’s soul soothed his own when he had worn it thin. It had rarely even been under instances like Chris, but sometimes only going into the world with so many people, so many emotions, could be draining. Stiles could drain him when wanted, but so often he replenished him like few people had ever been capable of. 

 Chris’s pain still pulsed like the lingering ache of the flu in his bones, but it was leaving. By tomorrow it would only be a memory. 

 Finally, he pulled away. 

 “I’ll start a fire in the hearth if you want to start dinner?” he asked. 

“Sure,” Stiles said, then he gave him another firm hug. 

 Stiles hadn’t said thank you again, but Peter could feel it pulsing off of him, a warmth, a sweetness that was intoxicating. 

***

 After putting the dishes from dinner in the dishwasher, Stiles went into the living room where he could hear Chris and Peter talking. The sleet and ice were coming down heavily outside. The weather was on TV, showing a large blue and white storm slowly moving across their area. It didn’t move like the springs storms that blew across their area ripping things up with straight-line winds and hail. Their ice storms were slow, lazy. The meteorologist was pointing at the map and talking, but it was too quiet for Stiles to hear what he said. 

 Chris was laying on the couch and Peter was across from him sprawled on the ottoman. In the orange light, they both had dark circles beneath their eyes, but they were smiling about whatever they were talking about. 

 Stiles came in and sat at the end of the couch, pulling Chris’s feet onto his lap, and propping his own on the ottoman. 

 “Have you heard anything about how bad the storm is supposed to be?” Chris asked, looking at Stiles. 

 “They said maybe as bad as 2011.” 

 “That wasn’t so bad.” 

 “We didn’t have electric for two weeks.” 

 “We had the fireplace.” 

 Stiles laughed. “Yeah okay.” 

 “Is the water heater electric or gas?” Chris asked. 

 “Gas,” Peter said. 

 “Good. That’s the only thing that was bad.” 

Stiles look at Peter and rolled his eyes. Peter smiled. “And the being iced in sucked ass. No TV. No internet.” 

 “We had bad internet out there anyway,” Chris said. “We got to go sledding though.” 

 Stiles laughed. “Being pulled behind the truck on a trashcan lid is not sledding.” 

 “No you’re right. It’s more fun.” 

 “I’m sorry, what was that?” Peter asked, laughing slightly. “A trash can lid?” 

 “Yeah. Chris and Dad had the bright idea to tie a rope to the trailer hitch of one of the cars. Wait, no, that was Elias. It was his Bronco.” 

 “Yeah. I can’t remember what he was here for,” Chris said. 

 “You were about to leave. He wanted to spend time with you,” Stiles said. 

 Chris nodded. His smile faltered for a second before it grew again. “I remember when he steps on the gas too hard.” 

 “He almost ripped my fucking shoulders out of socket.” 

 “It wasn’t like you didn’t get him back,” Chris said. “Ice balls aren’t really made for throwing.” 

 “They are if you’re throwing them at a dick.” 

 “Elias?” Peter asked. “That’s your brother?” 

 “Yeah.” 

 “How much older is he?” 

 “A little over six years,” Chris said. 

 “They could be twins,” Stiles said to Peter. “His hair is a little bit lighter, but that’s it.” 

 “I hope I get to meet him.” 

 “I’m sure you will. I’ll call him soon,” Chris said, messing with the label on the bottle of beer Peter had given him. “Sooner rather than later.” 

 Stiles squeezed his calf. 

 “Good. I’m sure he would love to see you.” 

 “I know he would,” Chris said before his chest deflated. “Coming back from the dead is exhausting.” 

“I can’t imagine,” Peter said. “Small steps will get you there in the end.” 

 “I guess,” Chris said. 

 “Would you want to go out in the truck tomorrow?” Peter asked. “If it does get bad, that is.” 

 “Not with Stiles driving.” 

 “I can drive,” Peter said. 

 Stiles wanted to kick  him. He wanted Chris inside, warm, and away from anything he could slip on. But then Chris smiled, the corner of his mouth barely turning up and he actually looked a little excited. 

 “Let’s do that.” 

 “We’re all going to die, just so you guys can get a thrill.” 

 “You could die sitting there and being boring,” Peter said. “We’ll stay on the back roads. His truck has four wheel drive.” 

 “Fine, but if we get stuck, you get to explain to Dad why we were out there.” 

 “Like you’d even have to tell him,” Chris said, taking a drink. 

 The sad part is, Chris was right. It was nothing for Chris and John to go out when the weather was bad, tornadoes, ice storms, anything that they could get out in and have just a little danger. The truck Chris had before the Silverado was totaled by it when Chris and John ran straight into a hail core and the $2,000 Ram was no match for baseball sized hail. A tornado had passed within two miles of them. 

 “Fine,” Stiles said again. Something faint and warm built in his chest as he felt the first tugs of old indulgence, of irritation, and exasperation that a man twice his age was twice as reckless. Peter met his eyes and smiled, like he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking. He probably did. Stiles didn’t know why his face started to burn with his tear ducts. 


End file.
